


Agents of Change: Fate or Chance

by Eisen



Series: Agents of Change [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Character Death, F/M, Fifth Blight, Gen, Multiple Origins, Pre-Blight, Slightly more than Slight AU, Slow Burn, Suspense, Violence, longfic, part of a longer series, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 41
Words: 92,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of heroes forged and legends born - a retelling of the events that occurred in the year of 9:30 Dragon, when the names Hawke, Amell, Cousland and Trevelyan, began sending ripples across Thedas. An Origins fic with an AU twist and Inquisition spice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ortus Natales

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All Roads Lead to Denerim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108972) by [blackSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackSparrow/pseuds/blackSparrow). 
  * Inspired by [Stepping Into Fate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451268) by [zombolouge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombolouge/pseuds/zombolouge). 
  * Inspired by [Dragon Age Origins The Fantom Edit](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/152246) by FantomEditor. 



> Fate or Chance is a Dragon Age Fanfiction by Eisen. Dragon Age belongs to Bioware.
> 
> I am forever indebted to [coffeeguru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/pseuds/coffeeguru) for her willingness to edit my work.
> 
> Also, my thanks to:  
> [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon), for constantly being _the_ best fic writer in existence.  
> [Caek](http://grimmcake.tumblr.com/), [Doodles](http://dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com/), [Alyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therutherfordwife/pseuds/therutherfordwife), [Aelie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelie/pseuds/aelie) and [Chant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie) for being cool friends and everything that is good about a fandom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Shadows of the coming Blight_  
>  _Fault of those who sought the light._  
>  _What's held dear is lost in fire,_  
>  _Men of greed that never tire._  
>  _Absent home, absent shelter,_  
>  _Force of will, never waver._  
>  _Devoid of that which makes them sing,_  
>  _Expectant gaze, broken ring._  
>  _Devoid of that which makes them weep, ___  
> _Endless sorrow, death we seek._  
>  _Split in spirit, sound of mind_  
>  _Secrets veiled, of one a kind_  
>  _The Fade yet beckons,_  
>  _Unknowing armed by ancient heavens._

Knight-Captain Greagoir watched from the opposite side of the street as his fellow Templar walked up to the door of the house and knocked. He had an equal measure of appreciation and dislike for this part of the job; while he hated to see families torn apart in this manner and even play a role in it, he was always relieved to know that this might allow them to protect the innocent better and hopefully save someone from themselves.

The unfortunate family had just recently moved to Ferelden from the Free Marches and it looked as though they were former nobility. Greagoir watched as his companion briefly spoke to the woman who had answered the door, even from here he could see that her striking blue eyes were still bloodshot and puffy from crying and her dark hair just hastily tied into a bun, wisps of it still trailing at odd angles. A man came to the door to stand close behind her, his expression seemed slightly glazed but arms gently reached out to comfort the woman. She detached herself from him and entered the house again while the Templar quietly spoke with the man.

Many of the people who walked by shot glances of pity at the house, but there was the occasional look of disgust coupled with angry muttering, as some whispered to each other while watching the proceedings with suspicion. Such was the stigma against those who were unfortunate enough to have something like this happen to them or their families, those unfortunate enough to receive the gift of magic.

The Knight-Captain watched all of this from his post; it was always the same. Theirs was a thankless job, to watch over the mages, yet it was necessary: even with the power of mages having done much good in the world, it also had the potential to wreak unimaginable chaos. This was due to the mage’s innate ability to access the Fade, the incorporeal realm that was separated from this one by the Veil.

All sentient beings travelled to the Fade when they dreamed, with the exception to dwarves, who it was hypothesised that due to their constant exposure to lyrium – magic in its purest form – they had been made immune to most spiritual influences. Unlike others though, mages had the ability to remain conscious in the Fade. This allowed them to exert some control over reality, drawing the often unwanted attention of demons. These demons would then try to possess the mage and use them as a conduit to the real world, which would normally result in the mage becoming an insane monstrosity.

Greagoir had encountered several of these so called ‘abominations’ as a Templar and it had been a harrowing experience each time; the bodies of the former mages normally bloating up into gruesome creatures of frightening strength and magical prowess. This was why the Circle of Magi had been formed under the oversight of the Chantry; so that mages could have the opportunity to learn to master themselves, and if that should fail, that there were those trained in the grim art of bringing down a magical foe, namely the Templars, at hand - should the need arise.

The Templar’s thoughts returned to the task at hand when he saw the woman re-appear in the doorway, this time steering a young girl by the shoulders. The girl had a striking resemblance to her mother and Greagoir could already tell that one day she would test the vows of many an initiate. She was holding a pack to her chest, arms clinging to it as if it were all the security she had left in the world. The woman leaned down to hug her daughter one last time, whispering something to her before she nodded to Greagoir’s companion. The Templar nodded, and used one gauntleted hand to steer the girl from the doorway, gently guiding her to her new future.

The Knight-Captain took one last glance at the couple before walking out into the road to join the other two. Now to journey to Lake Calenhad and the Tower; it would take several days, but he had planned for them to join a trading caravan for most of the trip, so that it would hopefully be shorter and safer than usual.

~o~

Elisa Cousland looked out over the parade grounds of castle Highever from the window of her room. Down below in the dust, her twin brother was sparring with one of the squires, their wooden practice swords clanking off each other’s weapons, shields and occasionally armour. If one had stood the two of them next to one another they’d easily have seen the resemblance, both of them having golden blonde hair and pale blue – almost grey - eyes; when they had been younger they had even sometimes pretended to be each other to play pranks on their tutors and castle staff. The last time they tried that it no longer managed to achieve the desired result as Elisa grew to look more like her mother and Erik like his father.

She sighed, wishing that their mother would return, so that she could also resume her training. Their mother had been visiting one of the local Bann’s wives for the past week and Elisa was growing restless. Since while she had to continue all her lessons concerning matters of court and other things a noble’s daughter ought to know, her lessons in martial arts had been suspended for the duration of her mother’s absence.

She was never allowed to join the boys, since that was considered ‘unlady-like’ and her mother was the only one proficient in the art of combat that she was being taught; one that relied more on subtlety and speed opposed to brute force, since few women would be able to stand on par with men in that department. Elisa tried to return to reading the book she had taken from her grandfather’s study, but her attention was drawn again to the window when she heard the boys below burst into laughter.

Erik was sitting back on the floor, a page, that Gilmore boy with that fiery hair standing over him, offering his hand. The young Cousland gripped it and was pulled back to his feet, still laughing. “My lord is as benevolent as ever,” Gilmore said, bowing mockingly before the young noble. “Ever willing to grace the ground with his arse’s presence.”

“Careful there Gilmore, I might just grace _your_ arse with the presence of my foot.” Erik said, still chuckling.

“My lord’s generosity humbles me.”

Both boys looked up when they heard a giggle. Elisa was leaning out of the window, “Whatever will Nan say if she knew the language you two were using in the presence of a lady?” Her clear voice rang down.

The squire’s face turned red in embarrassment as he fiddled with the hilt on his practice sword, Erik on the other hand looked around nonchalantly. “What lady? …Oww!”

Gilmore burst out laughing again as a book from above landed on his companion’s head.

~o~

Leandra looked over to the table where Sorana and Malcolm were sitting; her daughter was fiddling with some trinket the stern man had given her while he was penning another of his letters. Carver and Bethany – their youngest - were sitting on the floor playing with some carved animals. She was about to turn back to her cooking with a content smile when the trinket Sorana had been inspecting lit up with a dull red glow. The girl gasped, dropping it on the table.

Malcolm looked up from his letter, “Aha, that went faster than I had expected - well done girl.”

He pointed a finger at the trinket and a small spark of electricity jumped from him to it and it stopped glowing. “Let’s see if you can do it again, quicker this time.”

It was a curious-looking artifact: a sphere of jet or onyx that was clamped by golden spines. On the bottom a small section protruded which looked like it was supposed to slot into something. Sorana was carefully tracing her fingers along the spines again, trying to recall what exactly it was that she had done that had caused the item to light up.

Leandra looked at this exchange, her face set in an expression of mild annoyance. “Dear, you know I don’t like it when you do magic in the house.”

“But it was hardly more than a static shock!” he responded with feigned indignance.

“Yes, well… now that you have Sorana to deal with as well I think we should set up more formal rules about it. Firstly, because while I know you can keep the casting to a minimum we don’t know how long it will be before she is in complete control of it…”

“Ah, don’t worry so much about it, Love. She’s a natural; besides we’re far enough from town so as to not have to worry about people peeking in through the shutters and ratting to the Templars.”

Not quite satisfied with his answer, she looked at the subject of their discussion again, concern written plainly across her face, before returning to preparing their evening meal. She prayed that neither of the younger children would end up having to deal with the same difficulties their eldest would inevitably have to face.

Young Carver had dropped his toys when the trinket had first started glowing, enamoured by the lights. Malcolm ruffled the boy’s hair good naturedly as he tried to peek over the edge of the table to see. “Let’s hope you’ll never have to deal with that thing lad.”


	2. Augmentum Probabilis

Celestine Amell walked through the halls of the tower; she had been here for years and still felt like an outsider. _Maybe it will be better when I finally finish my apprenticeship_ , she often thought to herself, but only the First Enchanter knew when that would happen. Nobody was ever forewarned of their Harrowing – the trial every mage had to pass to be fully accepted into the Circle of Magi.

The stories of what one had to do during your Harrowing were rampant among the apprentices; some said you had to fight other apprentices, others said you had to fight a Templar or a senior mage and there were some that said you had to fight monsters, abominations, demons; by now Celestine would not be surprised if the Harrowing required you to dance naked under the moonlight like the wilder witches were said to do.

She walked into the girls’ dormitory and headed over to her bed. The room was one massive section near the base of the circular tower where all the female residents of the Circle stayed until they passed their Harrowing. There were rows and rows of bunk beds under the high arched roof; each apprentice had a cupboard in which to store what few personal effects they were allowed to keep, but other than that there was little privacy, not to mention the routine Templar inspections to make sure that there were no dangerous magical artifacts outside the controlled environments.

Celestine heard that the Templars themselves lived very spartan lives, but at least they had the opportunity to _choose_ to do so or not; mages were afforded no such luxury. Torn away from their families as soon as their potential was discovered or the Templars caught up with them – and they were deemed safe to be allowed to study in the Circle – mages were practically prisoners, in a very gilded cage yes, but prisoners nonetheless.

The young girl thought back to when she had been taken by the Templars and the last time she had seen her parents. They had lived in Jader only a short time before her so called ‘gift’ manifested itself; before that she had vague memories of a large city that seemed to be carved out of the mountains that surrounded it. Of her parents themselves she remembered less and less each year, except her mother’s face. She would never forget that, the loving eyes, soft hair, warm smile and the single tear that ran down her face as she told her that everything would be fine as the Templars took her. Her father only left an impression of being the large, stern protecting shadow in the background.

She sometimes envied the ones that only came to the Circle later in their lives, they had at least experienced something of the life that the outside world offered, but they had also sacrificed more; they would ever resent this place more than she did. But even they managed to form relationships with the other apprentices, she on the other hand never could. She could feel the eyes of the others following her whenever she entered a room, hear the buzzing whispering.

“That’s _her_.”

“The one who killed all those people?”

“Yes, they say the only one to survive was the Knight-Commander himself.”

“The Knight-Commander had to be sent to bring her in?!”

“They say she killed over a dozen people!”

“Yeah, and half of them couldn’t be recognised afterwards.”

“I’m happy I’m not in any of her classes.”

“I do Ancient Cultures in the same group as her; she has to stay right in the back where the Templar overseer is.”

“Why did they even let her into the Circle?!”

“She should be made Tranquil.”

“I bet she practices blood magic.”

“I hear she needs special lessons to make sure she doesn’t get possessed.”

“No way!”

“It’s true; I’ve seen the Templars escort her out of the dormitories after hours.”

“I’m happy my bunk is on the _other_ side of the room.”

Either the gossipers were never aware of how far sound actually carried in the Circle’s cavernous halls, or they did not care. But the end result was always the same; no one would associate with her. Even the Templars, who were aloof to begin with, let her feel that she was under a particularly close scrutiny and in the end maybe they were all justified in their fears, since the event that started them did take place. How the rumours had made it here she didn’t know, since only she and the Knight-Commander had been there to experience what had happened and he did not seem the type to spread such things, as befitting of his rank. All she knew is that they chased away all potential friends before she had a chance to try and make them.

“Hey Tina, you there?!”

Well, maybe not _all_ , Celestine thought to herself slightly amused. “Yeah, I’ll be right there, lemme just get my boots on.”

Once she had finished tying up the laces, she headed out of the dormitory to see another apprentice leaning against the wall of the hallway. “Why you always insist on wearing those things when we head outside I’ll never know.”

“Hello to you too Jowan,” she said, poking him in the ribs as she walked past.

“Hey, hey! Don’t do that!” He ran to catch up to her, “and could you walk a little slower; you’d think you were one of the Templars the way you march about - it's that new recruit, right? Carrol? Callow? Something...I've seen you eyeing him.”

Jowan was the picture of a mage stereotype: tall, skinny, neck-length black hair and had a slightly nasally voice that if you listened to for too long would annoy you no end. But he was willing to associate with Celestine, so she put up with it, and behind it all he seemed like a decent guy.

“I’ve told you before, we live in Ferelden; you can only wear those Orlesian-style things indoors. Outside though, the mud will make short work of them! ...his name's Cullen, and it's not what you think."

“And here I thought girls were supposed to be all for pretty Orlesian things...and pretty Templars too, I suppose. It's the armour, isn't it? I should get me some of that.”

Celestine decided not to respond to that, rolling her eyes, they were almost outside. They were allowed to go outside during breaks between lessons and she was sure going to make use of that. Living inside all the time like some dwarf in its underground city was not to her tastes.

~o~

Erik tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his gauntleted hand, panting slightly. He barely had an opportunity to brace himself, when his opponent flung herself at him again. They whirled around one another in a deadly dance. Or at least it would have been deadly had they not been using blunted weapons.

He was wearing full splint-mail armour and wielding a sword and shield. His opponent was dressed in tight-fitting leather armour and wielding two daggers. She had speed and manoeuvrability, but he had power and reach. They circled each other warily, their fight having thrown dust from the floor of the parade grounds into clouds that stuck to their sweating bodies. The squires in charge of cleaning armours would have a full afternoon today, he thought.

His opponent, noticing even this smallest of distractions, lashed out; she flowed forwards, blade in her right swinging at him from below. Erik moved his shield to block it, but then it wasn’t there anymore. The other dagger caught on his sword and it seemed as though his opponent almost used it to swing around him. Suddenly she was behind, pressed against his back, one dagger held to his throat, the other at his gut.

He groaned and dropped his sword and shield on the ground in submission.

His opponent giggled, and twirled around him, sheathing her daggers as she went. “Beat you again, brother!”

Elisa took off the leather cap that protected her head and tossed it onto his shield. Erik also took off his helmet and dropped it to the floor. “Well, as long as it’s only you and not Rory anymore.”

“Hey!” The ginger-haired squire was standing on the side of the area they had been practicing in.

Elisa merely laughed again and hugged her brother. She detached herself from him and - dropping her dagger harness - ran off towards the door leading out of the courtyard. “As the victor I claim first bathing rights!”

“Oi, that’s not fair! You take far too long!” Erik shouted after her.

He barely heard her response, “Victor!”

The losing twin sighed and leaned down to pick up the dropped gear. The squire that had been watching them sidled over. “Well I suppose this proves it. Your sister will probably be the best fighter in Highever by the time she comes of age.”

“Yeah, mother taught her all those sneaky rogue tricks. No way a clunky knight can beat either of them…but I plan to keep practicing until I can at least hold my own against her, you never know when that might prove useful. Now help me carry these things!”

Rory moved in to pick up Elisa’s dropped gear and the two boys headed towards the castle armoury. Just as they rounded a corner they heard the rapid staccato of a dog’s claws on the cobbled floor. “Oh no,” Erik groaned.

Then he was thrown to the floor as a young Mabari hound landed on him, “Alright, alright, I get it, stoooop! Gilmore save me!”

The squire had to laugh as he watched the young noble’s antics at his dog’s affections. Alfonse, the Mabari, had imprinted itself on Erik the previous year when the newest litters were born in the castle kennel. Mabari were a species of dogs that had an uncanny intellect due to a mage’s breeding several ages ago. They were highly prized in Ferelden, it was said to have a pure-bred mabari imprint itself on you was the highest honour, a sign of true nobility of character.

Erik finally managed to push the hound off him, and wiped his arm with his sleeve. “That’s what I get for forgetting to get you your treat today, I suppose.”

Alfonse barked happily.

“Okay, just let me pack away these weapons and we’ll see if Nan has anything for you.” Eric responded, scratching the hound between the ears affectionately. “Just try not to make a habit of that…jumping thing; soon you’ll be big enough to squash me if you do it!”

Alfonse whined in response to this, but trotted – seemingly content – after the two boys, as soon as Erik had picked up his weapons again, occasionally interjecting a conversational bark to the discussion the two were having while they headed towards the armoury.

~o~

Sorana looked at her father’s back again as she followed him along the animal trail into the forest. Bethany was sitting on his shoulders as he wandered and Carver was following behind, if maybe at a bit of a distance, getting distracted by all the insects making their home in the underbrush and loam.

This had become a daily routine for them; Mother stayed at home to prepare supper and they would then head off into the wilderness until they reached a small clearing. Here Malcolm would train Sorana in the arcane arts as her younger siblings played off to the side. Some days he would train her to cast spells outright, other days it would be simple meditations and self-control exercises. He had also begun to teach Carver the basics of martial arts and Sorana took it upon herself to partake in these lessons, not only to support her brother and father, but because even at her tender age she knew that it was the prudent thing to do – to know how to fight without magic.

The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm and birds chirped in the leafy foliage as they trained. Malcolm had carved a simple staff from one of the trees and presented it to his eldest, he had cut one for himself and began to show her the motions used to cast and other routines that could be used for close combat should the need arise. This carried on for several hours until the sun was starting to set and he motioned that it was best that they head back before dark; that was when they noticed that Carver was missing.

“Rana, please take your sister back home.” Malcolm said curtly, scanning the treeline for any traces of his son.

The girl nodded, picking up on her father’s body language - now was not the time to second-guess him. It was the same stance he took whenever they heard that Templars were nearby, or actively looking for them.

Bethany, oblivious to the circumstances asked loudly, “But what about Carver?”

Sorana gently hushed her as she lifted her youngest sibling onto her back, “Carver will come back with father and come home later.”

“But I want to go home with Da!”

“Not now Beth, Father can take you next time.” Sorona said as she started off into the forest at a brisk walk.

As she walked along the animal trail she kept a careful eye out for any traces of her brother, but by the time they reached the eaves of the woods she still hadn’t found a trace of him. She walked over to the house and opened the door, depositing Bethany inside. “Now, be a good girl and help Mom with supper. I’ll be right back with Father and Carver.”

Closing the door, she turned and ran back into the forest, the rapidly descending sun enlarging its shadows with every passing moment. She found the animal trail again and followed it back to the clearing. Malcolm was no longer there.


	3. Augmentum Fier

She strained against the fatigue that weighed down on her whole body, silently praying that she could maintain control over the spell as flames danced mere inches from her skin, cocooning her in a second layer. This particular form of magic did not have much application outside testing strength of will and stamina, but the concentration it demanded to force flames to form this close to her body without having them cook her alive and at the same time keep them confined within several inches of where they originated without having them flare outward was monumental. Beads of sweat ran into her eyes, her hair was clinging together and to her face; her robes were soaked from the exertion.

Finally, after what seemed another eternity the First Enchanter nodded. Celestine released the spell and, panting heavily, fell to her knees, weary arms barely managing to stop her from falling all the way. The flames themselves had flared up briefly and then dissipated into nothing; they did not even leave traces of smoke.

The room they were in was near the top of the tower, where, due to it getting thinner, there was no space to have as many chambers next to one another as there were on the lower floors. This meant that the rooms were ideal for the practicing of magic and the more hazardous of experiments, since there were minimal adjoining rooms that could be affected if something went wrong. Concerns for the main structure of the tower were negligible, since the ancient magics and engineering techniques that had been used in its construction made it nearly impervious.

Celestine wondered about the tower’s origins - not for the first time – as she lay there gasping, the cold, smooth stone pressing against her hands and knees. She had been training here under the tutelage of First Enchanter Irving since the first few weeks of her arrival at the tower years ago, always under the close scrutiny of several Templars. But hers was not a common lot; Knight-Commander Greagoir had specifically asked for it as soon as they had made it to the tower, in response to what had transpired during their journey there; the events that had wiped out a whole caravan and killed the other Templar escorting her.

He had not been Knight-Commander at that point, but he and the First Enchanter had ever had an understanding of sorts and their mild temperaments made it somewhat easier to liaise between watchers and watched. When the lyrium Templars imbibed to grant them the powers they needed to watch over mages began to take its toll on the previous Knight-Commander’s mind, the Grand Cleric had promptly appointed Greagoir to the role.

“By the Maker, Celestine! I still cannot grasp how you manage to do it, even after all these years,” Irving exclaimed as he walked over to her hunched form. The First Enchanter was an elderly man with long grey hair and a thick beard that hid most of his face, but did not quite manage to hide the gauntness of his cheeks, or the dark rings around his eyes; the eyes themselves, though, sparkled with keen intellect. He wore robes that were a fresh green with tasteful white accenting and had a great deal of golden embroidery. “Your spells seem to have an unbelievably high natural power threshold but you still manage to maintain them for unbelievably long periods considering that drain, and with astounding control.”

The apprentice finally managed to gather the strength to try and stand. She wearily pushed herself to her feet, making for a table and chair that were standing against a wall. Once she successfully shuffled to the seat she gratefully dropped into it, resting her head against the cold wall, closing her eyes and waiting for the throbbing to recede. Once she could open her eyes and not think that the dim light in the room would stab right through them into the back of her head, she looked around. Irving had sat down on the other side of the small table and she gratefully noted the cup of water he had poured her from the decanter that had been set aside for such occasions. Grabbing it, she gulped down the contents, the slight trembling of her body that had started settling down as the wet coolness seemed to flow down her throat and infuse her.

After downing another two of these, Celestine decided that it was worth trying to risk speaking. “I wish I didn’t have all that power…I mean I’ll be cooped up in this place my whole life anyway, why make the reason such a bitch to control.”

She placed the cup onto the tray with the decanter again, “If I had my way, I’d be happy with a puny smidgen of power so I can live the easy, lazy mage life.”

Irving chuckled good-naturedly, “Believe me, my girl. If anyone here had their way I doubt we’d have any mages to begin with.”

The dark-haired apprentice looked out onto space contemplatively. “I suppose. But then again, a world without magic would be so _boring_!”

“Even the ordinary has its own magic if you know where to look.”

“I suppose….”

After a short silence Celestine spoke up again, “First Enchanter?”

“Yes?”

“Robes suck.”

~o~

“Erik, you take your men and circle around from the left. Eliza, you go with him,” the Teyrn said to them, the tone of his voice clipped. He was loath to send them to battle, but they were his children and the welfare of the land would be in their hands once he was gone. Best they learn now while he was still around to teach, than have them stumble around and learn from their own mistakes once the responsibility was theirs.

Erik and his sister clapped their right fists to their chest in salute. This would be the younger Cousland’s first command and he hoped to make his father proud. Their army was split into three, the main force led by their father, each of the others commanded by one of the brothers, Fergus and Erik.

The soldiers and knights commanded by their father were the most trained and experienced. Fergus led the archers and scouts, the soldiers that would blend into the battlefield and harass the enemy. Erik was to lead the auxiliary troops, those that had been conscripted from the freeholders and commoners, they had the least experience when it came to war; as such theirs was not a duty that would require a great deal of skill, but their numbers were required so that the others would not be overwhelmed. Rory Gilmore accompanied the twins as Erik’s squire and to lend another experienced arm to the battle on their side.

After the battle plan had been laid out, Erik and Elisa headed out of their father’s pavilion. “So much for sleep,” the young man muttered. Elisa punched his armoured shoulder, the clapping together of metals making it seem to have been harder than it actually was.

“Don’t be like that,” she was grinning broadly. “If you have any real issues getting sleep I’ll just ask Alfie to breathe in your face until you pass out!”

“Maker, no! Anything but that”

The two headed to where their tents were pitched and after conferring with Rory about the morning’s plans headed off to get some rest.

~

The following morning was greeted by a camp that was already bustling with activity. The distant horizon was glowing with the promise of a rising sun and a clear day. Erik groaned and pushed his blanket aside, swinging his legs over the side of the cot so he could sit up. He was busy rubbing the sleep from his eyes when his sister burst into the small space. “ _Gooood mooorning_ , Commander!”

The only response she got was an old tunic in the face. “Urghmph!”

Pulling the garment from her face she scrunched it up. “I swear that you and that dog are becoming more and more alike in not only mannerisms, but also scent.”

Alfonse, who had been sleeping on the floor next to the cot, whined in protest.

Elisa was already dressed for battle, wearing a light set of armour that consisted mostly of leather and chainmail. Her long blond hair had been tied up into a low bun so that it wouldn’t get in the way and she could still put on a helmet.

Erik was donning his own as fast he could; it would not do to be late on his first day in a position of command. After a while of trying to fix some of the more obscurely located straps Elisa sighed heavily and slapped his hands away, fixing them herself. “Thanks Lisa, now let’s go see where this squire whose job you’re doing is.”

They both exited the tent and almost ran into Gilmore who was carrying a plate of food. “Ah there you are! You should thank my sister here for helping me dress; otherwise I’d still be running around pantless.” Erik said as he finished buckling on his sword belt.

The red-headed squire chuckled. “My lord, that was my intention. Best way to lift morale is to see one’s commander in a state of undress they say.”

“Yes, yes…but we can’t have the soldiers not follow an order for rolling on the floor in laughter!”

Erik grabbed a loaf of bread and the tankard of water from the tray Gilmore had been carrying and started making his way to the section of the camp where his troops were located. The banter between lord and squire continued like that for most of the journey, Elisa silently following after them with an amused expression on her face. She would soak in these moments while she could, for soon they would be in battle and, being no fool, she knew that there would be little cause for levity at the end of the day.

~o~

Quarterstaff clapped against practice sword, the smoothed wood weapons pushing hard against one another. Then as fast as they came together they flew apart again and clashed again, the quick rapport of the contacts ringing through the clearing; on the edge of it stood a man slightly past his prime and a young girl. She had the same dark hair as him, but his had shocks of grey on the side already, belying the youth that seemed to dance in his golden eyes. The girl on the other hand had the same sapphire eyes as her two siblings sparring in the clearing.

“Alright, that’s enough you two.” Malcolm barked.

Sorana and Carver, who were once again locked together, relaxed at their father’s command. They both staggered to the other two’s sides and collapsed on the fresh green grass, panting from their exertions. After her breathing had calmed, Sorana reached for one of the waterskins they had brought along and took a long draught from it. She splashed some onto her face and passed the rest to her brother who did pretty much the same.

“Carver, you need to work on your footing, make sure that you are able to shift your position at any point, but still be stable enough to make a stand if needed,” Malcolm said, looking down at the lanky boy. “Take into account what weapon your opponent is using, whether it be another blade, two, an axe, mace, or a staff. Every one of them requires a different approach for you to come out the victor.”

He turned to address his eldest, “Rana, you are using a staff, don’t use it the same way your brother uses the sword. You do not have the physical strength to make the most of it, nor the chance to recover quickly enough if you make a mistake. Remember that when wielding a pole you have two sides from which to attack; you might even weaponise them at some point if you feel the need to do so.”

But then, belying the stern tone of his lecture, he stooped down gently and ruffled both their hair. “Details aside, you’ve both progressed marvellously.”

It had been some years since the night where Carver had gone missing, a harrowing experience for the close-knit family. But they had come out the stronger for it. Malcolm had decided that it was time for Carver to learn how to defend himself and Sorana had taken to her training with a renewed vigour and conviction.

It was an experience that had coloured most of their actions since then and would no doubt continue to do so, the only reminder of the event being the blood-red streak across Rana’s nose that did not seem to want to wash off.  As Carver got older he tried to continue to prove that he no longer needed his sister’s protection, while Sorana worked that much harder to protect those she held dear. Those opposing desires were often the cause of tension in the household.

Bethany, who had not been there during those pivotal events, simply idolised her elder sister, who like her, was born with magical potential. Bethany had only recently started studying its use though, while despite her young age Sorana had already mastered most of its aspects. This led to Malcolm spending most of his time now teaching Bethany, while Sorana practiced magic on her own, or trained with her brother.

“Beth, your turn; let’s see if you remember what we went through last time,” the Hawke patriarch stated as he headed to the centre of the clearing, his youngest hurrying to keep up with his long strides.


	4. Aspectus Vita

Scandalous is what it was, the very idea that a child of house Trevelyan was a mage, the most loveable of them all to boot. But they had tried to cover it up very nicely, yes they did. The child had almost reached her tenth nameday when the potential manifested itself, and what else could the family do but call for the Templars?

They came at night, when the estate was at its quietest. Five Templars entered the courtyard and after one had disappeared into the main building for a while he emerged again with the child in tow. Whilst all the Templars were adorned in their standard-issue armour that made each one of them look exactly like the last, the child was wearing simple but well-made traveling clothes. What also set her apart from others - and not just the cookie-cutter Templars - was her deep red hair.

Hers was not the normal flaming colour found among red-heads; instead it was a deep red, as if tinted by wine. She wore it relatively short for a girl her age, simply brushing the shoulder-length strands behind her ears. Her eyes were a striking emerald green that stood in stark contrast to her pale skin and rich hair.

And without any further ceremony, the Templars gathered together again, with the child in the middle of the group, and they set off; leaving the estate behind and the young Trevelyan’s life as she had known it, forever.

~o~

“Hey, Tina! You free?” Jowan shouted as he tried to catch up to his fellow apprentice as she walked through the circular halls of the tower.

The raven-haired girl turned to watch her friend as she stopped, waiting for him to catch up. “Mmm, I suppose. I was planning to get some reading done before my next lecture, but it can wait.”

Jowan grinned at her, finally having caught up. “Great, I wanted to ask if you could help me practice some spells.”

“And here I thought you wanted to regale me with more stories of this fabled courting.”

“Ah, _come on!_ I tell you she’s real!”

“Yeah, yeah - you keep telling yourself that.”

She continued to tease him in this manner until they reached the upper levels of the tower where they could practice magic. They were now among the older apprentices and no longer needed Templar supervision in everything they did. Celestine had been traveling to this area of the tower since her arrival at the Circle of Magi due to the nature of her arrival. Jowan on the other hand had only been given permission several months back; the relatively empty halls with only the occasional and very pre-occupied enchanter hurrying past them still intimidated him somewhat.

Celestine made a beeline to the room she always used to practice. She felt that it was more familiar to her than even the small area she had been designated in the dormitory. She pulled out a key and unlocked the heavy door that was one of the few of its kind – it emitted a strong spell-silencing aura that would render anything but the most mundane methods of unlocking or breaking it futile.

“Whoah!” Jowan exclaimed, “You have access to one of the high-level rooms?!”

“Yes,” she said grinning at him. “When some of us sneak off at night it’s not for some tryst in the chantry.”

“I _knew_ it! So the rumours about you are true. There’s no way someone can be as good as you with just regular classes and… and I’ve never even seen you take those to begin with," he paused briefly, "hmmm, so  _this_ is how that Cullen guy is involved. He's the one escorting you?"

She levelled a _look_ at him; the topic was heading in a direction she very much wanted to avoid. “Yes, but you're reading too much into that as well and since you said you wanted me to help you practice, let’s get started, or I’ll never get to my reading.”

~o~

Elisa looked around her room to find the gown her mother had said she would be wearing lying on her bed. The young Cousland was loath to shed her armour; she preferred it far more than the gaudy attire she was expected to wear for these formal occasions. But, sacrifices had to be made.

That evening, after a bath to clean off the day’s dust and sweat, she emerged from her room, ready to face what was sure to be a challenging evening. Her twin was already standing in the hall outside their rooms, seemingly waiting for her. She envied him and would much prefer wearing the hose and doublet that men wore than these frivolous things that women were expected to wear. He was wearing black, with golden embroidery. She was wearing a deep blue. Both outfits complimented their features, contrasting well with their golden hair and matching their blue eyes.

He grinned at her as he saw her emerge from her room. “Ready to face the music?”

“You’re only waiting for me so you don’t have to go too soon yourself.”

“Ah, my master plan is foiled.”

They wandered down through the corridors of the castle, making their way to the great hall. Servants were bustling everywhere, running from the guest lodgings to prepare the rooms of those that were staying the night and running between the kitchen, the great hall and the store rooms and larders to prepare the evening banquet.

They were met partway by their life-time companion and friend. Rory was dressed in a light blue that accented his flaming hair tastefully; it had been a gift for him for his long and loyal service to the family by the Teyrna.

“Hey Gil, is our mother tired enough of our stalling to finally send you?” Elisa asked.

“No, M’lady. I was merely tiring of Ser Perth’s religious talk; fetching the Teyrn’s children seemed to be the best reason to quickly escape his company.”

“Ser Perth, Ser Perth…. Hmm, I don’t believe I’m familiar with him.” Erik said as they continued towards the hall together.

Gilmore nodded, “It’s the first time he’s been here, part of Arl Eamon’s retinue. Might I be so bold as to say that you both look dashing and ravishing, respectively.”

“My thanks, but you’ll have to give most of the credit to our mother.” Elisa said, eying the back of her dress as she swished it around by the skirts.

“Indeed, my sister would still be wearing her armour if she had any say in the matter.” Erik said nudging her in the ribs with his elbow.

She responded by pushing him into a suit of armour that was lining the hallway, which then collapsed onto him, sending him to the floor. “Heeey! No fair!”

She grinned, looking back at him as he tried to untangle himself from the plate-mail. “Since when do I ever play fair?”

Rory, ever the squire, hurried to help the male twin get up and pack the collapsed suit of armour out of the way, while Elisa almost skipped to the main hall. Hopefully she would not need to sit with the other noble women, who only ever seemed to talk about prospective husbands and what the latest trends in Orlais were.

~o~

It had taken them a while, but they were now used to living in Lothering. The family had moved there after they got hints that the Templars might be looking for apostates. Malcolm had always taken precautions and he doubted that it was they who were being hunted, but on the off-chance that a poacher or woodsman might have seen them training, he had decided to move them anyway. Better to be safe than sorry, after all.

He had deemed that they no longer needed to practice the casting of spells. Bethany had mastered it a short while before they had moved. From then on, whatever arcane arts they practiced were purely theoretical, which afforded them far greater anonymity. Sorana and Carver still sparred on a daily basis to stay in shape with Bethany occasionally also taking part, but to outsiders they just seemed like an – if not ordinary – normal family.

Their father worked as a scholar and scribe. He also occasionally worked with the town’s chantry to decipher some of the older texts that were brought in by the odd adventurer or merchant, but these moments were rare as the documents were often counterfeit. Sorana and Carver began to offer their services as guards for caravans and merchants; sometimes they would be asked to kill off wildlife or pests in the area. It was not very reputable work, but it allowed them to see more of the world and put the skills they had honed from a young age to good use.

Bethany spent most of her time at home, helping their mother take care of the household and the small garden they nurtured. This was precisely what she was doing when she stumbled upon her sister sitting among the firewood behind their house with a staff clutched in her hands, which she seemed to be inspecting closely.

“Rana!” Bethany exclaimed, running to her older sibling and embracing her tightly.

“Hello sister… gak! Okay, Okay! You can let go now!”

“Why didn’t you say you were home?!” the youngest Hawke asked petulantly.

“It…didn’t feel right; I needed some time to think.”

“Why, what happened? Is Carver all right?” Bethany asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yes, yes…just being a prick as usual.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing…I was just thinking back to _that_ day.”

“Oh.” The answer didn’t seem to entirely satisfy Bethany, but she knew better than to pry further. But ever an optimist, she tried to change the topic to something brighter. “So, what are you doing with that staff? It doesn’t look to be made of any wood I’ve seen before.”

“Its heartwood; I think it’s related to that ironbark the Dalish make most of their armour and weapons from.”

Dalish elves were those that refused to let themselves be subjugated like most of their race had been and clung to their ancient culture and traditions. They were not quite rebels, but the nomadic tribes were rarely welcome in human lands. It was said that the Dalish welcomed magic and thus had to be careful around Templars as well, although after the Exalted March against the Dales, the Chantry rarely bothered with them.

“Whoa, isn’t that stuff super rare?” Bethany exclaimed and touched the staff in wonder, which Sorana handed over to her fellow mage to inspect. It was heavy, heavier than it looked, but not so heavy as to make it unwieldy.

“Mhm, I was lucky. Got attacked by one of those tree-men while traveling with that last caravan; I even had to use magic to bring it down in the end. But I was careful enough and the others thought it was the tree’s own magic.”

The younger girl looked at the staff with even greater reverence. “It feels…alive.”

Sorana grinned at her. “You should have seen the tree. That aura was pouring out of its every pore, or whatever it is that trees have. This bit seemed to make up the spine, and since I made the kill I claimed it. The others were quick to grab souvenirs of their own; one merchant even had me load the head onto his cart, paid quite the pretty sum for it.”

Bethany handed the staff back. Sorana took it and propped it against the back wall of the house. “I think I’ll use the money the head brought to have it looked at by a smith in Denerim next time I’m there; bound to be one who knows how to work the stuff.”

“While you’re at it, you might want to look up some tailors too,” Bethany teased. “It’s no wonder Carver can’t stand listening to you when you look like a tattered curtain.”

“As you wish, dearest sister; next time you see me I shall be adorned in the finest Orlesian silks.” Sorana said with a mocking curtsey.

“Maker forbid, someone might mistake you for a mage then!”


	5. Origio Mutatio

Samantha Trevelyan still could not quite come to terms with it; all her life she had lived as a noble and as a third child it was expected that she join the Chantry. That was usually how noble families did it: the heir, the spare, the cleric. She had been destined to serve the Maker since birth, but fortunately for her, her parents had been very good at hiding it.

All three Trevelyan children had gone through the same process of martial, political, and social education. While the discovery of her potential had broken it off abruptly, she was still far more prepared for the world than most her age. But now Samantha was in the Circle, and while she had studied some of the basic lore around magic, she was hardly ready to deal with it on such a… personal level.

At least it had manifested in a controllable way. She had heard of people dying, or massive damage caused when someone discovered their magic. In her case she had been alone in her room, seething after a fight with her mother; when she looked back at the moment, it had been a truly trivial thing to get so worked up about, but it was too late now.

She had slammed the door closed and sat down at her table, in her anger all movements were filled with rage; she almost knocked over the chair by pulling it out too roughly and kicked the table-leg when sitting down; the pain only flared her anger and she threw herself onto her bed, giving up on the desk. She had screamed into her pillow and punched the mattress to vent.

It had taken a while, but she eventually managed to regain a semblance of composure. When she sat up from having her face buried – tear stained and hair dishevelled -she saw that where she had been hitting the mattress, the thin feather covering had been scorched through and the hay tick underneath was still smouldering.

She had then looked at her hands, still clenched into fists. They had been visibly radiating heat, making the air around them ripple and swim. She looked at them, dumbfounded, and then the realization crashed down on her: _magic_. Samantha Augustine Trevelyan was a mage.

She did what any girl her age would have done: she ran to her mother, previous grievance forgotten. She had been dismissed at first, her mother thinking it was some wild idea to try and get back at her. Samantha had simply collapsed on the floor at this, weeping. This seemed to soften her mother and she took her to her chambers, where the ruined bedclothes were.

That was how the family had been dealt a terrible blow, both internally and externally. Despite the constant bickering they loved each other dearly; the parents lost a daughter and the elder siblings their sister. Politically, it was never safe for a noble family to reveal that they had magic in their line, unless they were of the Tevinter Imperium, as opponents might use the information to undermine them.

That was how it came to be that she was whisked away under the cover of night, and the pretence was made that she was to join the Chantry as had been intended, albeit in a distant country, opposed to the local one as had originally been planned. Now she was in the Circle and of the Circle. Here her noble heritage meant nothing; the Templars would cut down a royal abomination as soon they would a peasant.

Her only advantage was her prior education, which made the initial studies far easier. But when it came to knowledge concerning magic’s history and its use she was as green as all the other apprentices that were brought in. Samantha chuckled to herself quietly as she thought about the events that got her here ‘modest in temper, bold in deed'.’ She had utterly failed to live up to the family motto and for it, was branded with what some would call a curse.

She swore to herself then that she would never let her anger get the better of her. She would be a true Trevelyan, despite no longer being able to lay claim to land or title; she would prove that she was proud of her heritage despite how her very nature mocked it.

~o~

Celestine looked around her. So this was the Fade? The time for her Harrowing had finally come; the events all those years ago and the specialised training she had undergone had made it take place far sooner than it normally would have; the Templars’ demands had finally won out. They claimed it was too dangerous to keep a mage like her about without having undergone the Harrowing, and they could be right for all she knew. Not that she thought that she would spontaneously turn into an abomination, but it was far easier – and probably wiser – to humour them.

She had been escorted from the dormitories to the usual practice room. On the way there she had tried to strike up conversation with the two Templars, but they were very reluctant to talk. She knew the one – Ser Cullen – he was relatively new to the order, only having made his vows a year or two ago. Despite his having been at the Circle since then though he was still very withdrawn; perhaps it was because he did not always wear his helmet, and while she appreciated any Templar who would be good enough to show their face, she could understand that it would make it easier to talk to someone if they would not be able to read you. The other knight was wearing his helmet still, and as he didn’t speak to identify himself, she did not know who it was.

They eventually reached the familiar section of the tower where she had always been taught, but instead of leading her to the door and taking their posts there, they led her onwards, further into the tower. They carried on, down corridors that had an increasing lack of character. There were no more carvings and statues in the walls, the doors were mostly of a plain blackened wood with no markings, the stone that the tower was built of began to take a uniform shape and size, each block looking exactly like the last; even the air tasted different, as if it was merely air to be breathed, with no scents or smells.

The trio eventually reached a room where, unlike the others, the ceiling was considerably lower than the usual, even with its arches. On the other side, a small stairway led up into the room’s ceiling; the Templars prompted that she head that way and followed closely behind.

Celestine emerged into a large domed chamber; this had to be the top of the tower. In the centre there was a wrought iron pedestal that had a small basin on top, a brilliant blue glow emanating from it. Standing waiting for her were two more Templar knights and next to them Knight-Commander Greagoir and First-Enchanter Irving themselves.

That was when all the pieces slotted into place; she was to take her Harrowing. As the First-Enchanter had described it, she would be facing off against a demon in the Fade and should she prevail, she would become a fully-fledged mage of the Circle. Greagoir had warned that should she fail and become possessed – an abomination - they would kill her.

  
Art by: [yours truly](http://e153n.deviantart.com/art/Harrowing-The-555086475)

She had used the liquid blue ore – lyrium - in the basin to cross the veil to the other side and now she was in the Fade, realm of spirits, demons and dreamers. The air here was the same as in the last few stories of the tower she had been in, perhaps even more tasteless. She had read that everything here was created by spirits trying to mimic that which they could garner from dreamers’ dreams and memories; looking around she could tell that that was the only reason why someone would have put the place together the way it was.

She was standing on what seemed solid ground, paved with ancient crumbling cobbles. Filling the cracks between the cobbles was a light grey dust similar to ash, but more crystalline. Surrounding her was a pale wall that made of bone and horribly warped, bending in angles that made her wonder how it was still standing. The walled section she was in opened out onto a plain that, while still mostly covered in the grey dust, had bright green tufts of grass sticking out in places. Mushrooms as large as trees dotted the field and among them petrified trees of impossible size pierced the hazy green sky.

The sky itself was overcast and Celestine could see large chunks of land, simply floating there like clouds; some of these were also entwined in the massive gnarled branches of the petrified trees. To add to the strangeness, natural features were not the only things that behaved differently. Walls, like the one near her, dotted the whole area, sometimes even coming together to form buildings that defied the laws of physics, which was becoming recurring trend.

Items were also placed at random, tables arranged along the trunk of one of the mushrooms as if the trunk was the floor, and chairs stuck to the ceiling. Celestine observed all of this as she wandered through the Fade. She didn’t know how long she wandered; time had no meaning here. It could have been seconds, or hours, or years that she walked across the plain that was littered with strangeness.

The only thing that kept her going was that she had a goal: triumph over the demon. The outside world was unimportant now, strangely detached and yet, as the apprentice wandered she could not shake the feeling of increasing wrongness.

The fickle nature of the Fade showed itself when, after what seemed ages of wandering across the dust-strewn plain, the rest of it just dissipated so that she almost stepped into the void. Barely able to catch herself from tumbling over, she took a few steps from the newly appeared edge. After gathering her composure again she took a few hesitant steps towards it and looked down. The floor dropped away sharply, but instead of a rock-face it the orientation of the field she had been walking on had been changed and now the landscape was spreading downwards, where it abruptly cut off and she could see that she herself was on just another one of the floating isles and that the overcast green sky spread below as it did above. She briefly wondered what would happen if she fell down.

“So they throw another ill-prepared apprentice to the wolves,” a voice said from behind, sounding sad.

Celestine squeaked in surprise, jumping from the edge again to see who had spoken. She looked around, but could not find the origin of the voice.

“Here.”

She looked down; on the floor before her was a giant mouse with a glossy brown coat and dark eyes that were looking right at her.

“Who?” Celestine asked suspiciously, looking around to see if there were any other animals she had overlooked.

“Why the Templars of course,” the mouse said with a matter-of-fact tone. The voice was eerily familiar.

“What do you mean by that?” She asked.

The mouse looked at her, seeming to contemplate. Then it glowed brightly and its shape began to distort. Green vapour flowed together around it and it began to take the form of a man. He looked to be around her age, with unkempt mousy brown hair and wearing robes that were similar to what apprentices now wore, but a bit more archaic in design.

“I was like you once; I was sent here for my Harrowing. But the Templars…they…if you take too long they automatically assume you failed and cut your body down. With no body to return to, my spirit is trapped here.” The man stated.

“And the mouse thing?”

“A trick I had to learn to keep the demons from finding me.”

“You said that I was ‘ill-prepared.’ What makes you think that?” Celestine asked.

“None of the apprentices sent here have ever been able to succeed in their Harrowing!” the man exclaimed, his voice laced with anger. “The Templars lure a demon here, promising it a meal and if the apprentice fails to defeat it - or takes too long - they are cut down.”

Celestine listened to what the man had to say, each word returning some of the purpose that she had lost. Yes, she was here for her Harrowing, not only to defeat a demon that may be hunting her, but to succeed and become a mage of the Circle – and with magehood came more freedom. She would finally be able to find her place in the Circle, to be counted as an equal and not shunned for some event she could barely recall.

“I will succeed.” she stated, before setting off along the edge where the land had warped away.

The man to sighed. “That’s what they all said.” He turned back into a mouse and followed after her.

“Why are you following me? And what’s your name anyway?”

“I’m following out of curiosity and hope that you may indeed succeed. My name has long since been lost. I cannot remember; but you may call me Mouse.”

After a short while they came to a small hill; as Celestine and her new companion rounded it she could see a man standing there. He was wearing exquisite armour, the likes of which she had never seen. The metal was polished to the point that it seemed to emit its own light. The suit had a strange resemblance to Templar armour, as if the Order had tried to imitate this masterpiece. Surrounding the man were dozens of weapon racks and armour stands, all of them levitating slightly above the floor.

The displays were all crowded with weapons of the most breathtaking craftsmanship. Swords that had blades that made of light, spears whose shafts looked as if they would never break, maces that as beautiful as they were brutal, axes whose blades would shear through rock, bows that would make the Dalish green with envy, and staves that would be worth more than a year’s supply of lyrium.

The armoured man had his back turned to Celestine and Mouse. As they drew near he turned around. “Ah, another mortal set to be preyed upon by the demons, greetings!”

As he said that he put the weapon he had been working on to the side and dropped it. Instead of falling to the floor it gracefully flew to one of the empty slots in the racks surrounding him.

“I am Valour.”

The young apprentice inspected him for a moment, but after a brief silence returned his salutation. “I am Celestine. You said you are Valour, is that your name?”

“No, it is what I am. I am a spirit of valour, but you may use it as a name if you so desire.”

Celestine nodded and looking around gestured with an arm. “All of these are yours? It’s an impressive collection.”

The spirit nodded. “I made these; they are the finest a mind can conceive. The Fade’s nature being what it is we can will anything into being. It is known to me that it is not so in the mortal realm. What a drab existence it must be.”

Celestine would have argued, but she got the impression that it would have made little impact; besides she was here to defeat a demon, not debate with what was no doubt one of “the Maker’s first Children.”

She considered asking the spirit if he could assist in destroying the demon she was to face, but she did not know how to wield any of the weapons besides the staves, and it normally took days if not weeks for a mage to acclimatise to a new one. She would rather trust her own power than that of an untested stranger.

“Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, spirit. I shall resume my task,” Celestine said as she set off inland, away from the edge this time. When she looked to where the spirit’s workstation had been she saw nothing but dusty cobbles. The only living thing that remained with her was Mouse, who was giving her a most curious look.

She turned her focus back to where she had been heading when she experienced a new sensation of the Fade. In the unmoving air was the scent of brimstone.


	6. Mutatio Hospes

The sun glinted off the sword as it spun around, though instead of finding its mark it only found air and so continued into the next arc. Instead of becoming another attack, this swing moved to block as two daggers came slashing in. The powerful arm steering the sword twisted, using the locked blades as a pivot, trying to land a blow with the elbow on his opponent.

The opponent realised the sword wielder’s intention just in time, shifting balance from pressing the attack she leapt back, managing to make even this hasty retreat look graceful. This move in addition to the loss of weight against his sword forced the man to swing one of his legs around to catch his balance. He immediately assumed a defensive stance, watching his opponent warily.

“Easy there Gil, you almost got me!” Elisa called. She was, as was the norm during practice sessions, only wearing her leather armour. Gilmore on the other hand was wearing the armour that had been commissioned for him for his knighthood - full silverite plate.

“Isn’t that the purpose of a duel, M’lady?” the ginger-haired man said with a half-smile. Despite what the young Cousland had said, it had been years since Erik, or he had managed to best her in a fight. While they had surely learned how to deal with a rogue’s approach to fighting, she had picked up on traditional styles too and it seemed second nature to her to change tactics on the fly.

There was a trend among the nobility to have three children, each with their predestined roles. While the Couslands were three, it seemed that the mentality of the twins was that of the one destined to fill the role of the second child and they complimented each other accordingly. Elisa was skilled on the battlefield, quick-witted and adaptable. Erik on the other hand was steadfast and reliable; he saw the greater picture and had foresight that seemed uncanny. He tempered her recklessness and she spurned his reluctance into action; together they were the commander of Highever.

Ser Gilmore and Elisa were still watching each other for the next opportunity, for the next attack, when a squire came running in. “Lady Elisa, Lady Elisa!”

“Yes, Seth?”

Elisa and Gilmore shared a glance and nodded, lowering their weapons. They had both been wielding blunted counterparts to their normal weapons, the better to be familiar with the weight of the real thing. While it was more dangerous than using wooden practice weapons, the risks of being unfamiliar with a weapon in battle were undoubtedly greater.

“Lady Elisa, your father requests your presence in the great hall. The guests have arrived.” The boy blurted out his message before scampering off.

“Hmm, I think I’ll need to talk to that boy’s teachers. He should know to wait for confirmation that the message was received before running off like that,” Ser Gilmore said, looking at the doorway the boy had disappeared through.

Elisa pulled off her leather cap, grinning. “Says the knight who couldn’t even bring himself to convey the first message he was sent to deliver as a squire to a girl.” Her hair had come loose from its bun and was spilling down around her face in a cascade of gold.

Gilmore turned a bright red, “That’s not fair! You know what you do to men when dressed up and I was ignorant to the wiles of women back then.”

“’Wiles’ he says…come to think of it, I think mother was indeed having me try out some of those silly dresses that day.”

“Speaking of dresses, should you perhaps change before going to meet these guests?”

Elisa rolled her eyes, throwing her arms into the air with exasperation. “If there’s any chance that I can chase away those poncey child-noble suitors by merely not bothering to clean up, I’ll take it.”

With that she entered the castle, still covered in sweat, grime and dust. Ser Gilmore chuckled to himself as he gathered up their discarded gear and headed to the armoury. “Never change, my Lady, never change.”

~o~

Erik was already with their father and the guest. Elisa grimaced when she saw who it was that they would be entertaining for the evening, but quickly composed herself before she walked up to the trio; she increased her pace a little when she noticed one of the visitor’s armed escorts leering at her.

“Ah, nice of you to join us daughter dearest – in such a presentable state too.” the Teyrn said, upon noticing her arrival.

She smiled at how her father poked fun at her, but also noticed that he did not openly reprimand her. “I thought it would be appropriate, considering the times and perhaps also as a deterrent.”

“Of that I have no doubt; may I present our guest, Arl Howe. He will be joining us in our fight against the darkspawn.”  The Teyrn gestured politely to the man he and Erik had been conversing with.

“A pleasure, my lady. Might I say that my son Thomas is around your age and would be very interested in meeting you.” The Arl’s voice had a nasally quality; that combined with his appearance of  hooked nose and long thin chin immediately put Elisa off. She was not normally one to judge by appearance, but the rumours she had heard of him had given her enough cause not to filter any thoughts of him on this matter. The man was a weasel - and while he’d been a long standing friend of her father’s she had picked up on talk of his recent dealings in their neighbouring hold of Amaranthine that put her ill-at-ease.

She looked at him flatly. “I’m not interested in arranged marriage.”

The Teyrn laughed, breaking the tension that had built. “See what I have to deal with, Rendon? It’s no wonder I’ve gone grey this fast.”

They were then interrupted by the arrival of an exotically armoured man in the hall. He had tanned skin – that of a man who spent more time outdoors than inside. He seemed to be slightly past his prime with deep brown eyes that looked like they had seen too much of the world, and a scruffy but not long beard with long brown hair tied back into a warrior’s tail.

“And here we have the guest of honour!” Teyrn Cousland exclaimed. “Children, this is Warden-Commander Duncan, commander of the Grey in Ferelden.” Both Elisa and Erik slapped their right fist against their chest in salute and bowed slightly.

“Duncan, meet my youngest, Erik and Elisa, Commanders of Highever.”

The Warden-Commander raised an eyebrow at this. “I have heard of the Soldier of Highever, I was under the impression that they would be a single person – as is usually the case.”

“In battle we are one,” Elisa said.

The Teyrn nodded. “They are twins, as their appearance might suggest – they were responsible for saving us a lot of grief with that mess with the Maleficar a few years back. First command too.” He then turned to address his children. “Duncan is here to assess new recruits for the Wardens. I hear he has taken an interest in Ser Gilmore.”

“If I might be so bold, my lord,” Duncan interjected, “I was also hoping to try and recruit this ‘Soldier’ of yours. Although seeing the state of things, I suppose that may no longer be ideal.”

At this the Teyrn moved to stand between his children and the Warden-Commander. “I do not have so many children that I would have them all set out to war at once.” He said defensively.

Duncan chuckled – a good natured sound. “Have no fear, my lord. I will not invoke the right of conscription; we are not so desperate for new Wardens that I would tear apart the family of a good friend for one – no matter their potential.”

But Elisa’s curiosity was perked. “I think joining the Wardens would be awesome, a chance to make a real difference!” she said leaning around her father’s shoulder.

“Yes Sister, but we have a duty here. Less glorious perhaps, but the people here need stability too,” Erik countered, trying to calm his ever excitable twin. “While Fergus does all the boring noble stuff, we get to kick the snot out of anyone who challenges his – what will no doubt be a tyrannical – rule.”

“First Highever, then the world!” Elisa dramatically exclaimed punching the air.

The Teyrn had moved back to his former position and covered his face with his palm. “I’m not about to die just yet. I would prefer it if you determine how to ruin my realm _after_ my eulogy.”

There was a short silence which was then broken by the Teyrn again. “Arl Howe’s soldiers have been delayed and will only be arriving tomorrow, understandable since this threat in the south appeared so suddenly.” He looked at his children. “I will be leaving with him in the morning; Fergus is to set out with our soldiers this evening. I want you to tell him to prepare, I’m sure the rest of the things we have to discuss will only bore you.”

“But I wanted to talk to the Grey Warden!” Elisa exclaimed, but before anyone else could respond Erik grabbed her by the shoulders and began steering her out of the chamber. “Yes Father, we will also start preparing for our duties.”

“Hey!” Erik steered his sister out of the room, despite her protests.

Duncan chuckled at these antics. “They take after you and your wife a great deal my lord.”

The Teyrn sighed heavily. “I just hope that eventually she manages to find someone besides family that will put up with her – that said, the chances of it being a noble are slim indeed.”

~o~

It had been a decade since they moved to Lothering, three years since the death of their father. At the time it had seemed unreal; their father had been invincible in their eyes. A master of the mind and magic, it had been his careful tutelage that had allowed them to live as apostates all their lives without discovery.

In the end it had been the desire to protect the anonymity and image of his family that had killed him. Surrounded by bandits while travelling to the local Arl’s estate on business, he had been unable to fight them all off without the use of magic and so had been struck down. His body had been found later by a patrol and returned to the family. Sorana and Carver had been away then, still working as caravan escorts. When they eventually found out it had taken a while for the family to recover, but time heals all wounds and eventually they put it behind them. His lessons still followed them in whatever they did, something that would serve them well in the days to come.

Sorana walked into their home, closing the door behind her. Carver was sitting in a corner, whittling at a piece of wood. Bethany was helping their mother prepare supper. “Heard the news in town?” the eldest of the Hawke children asked as she moved to sit at the table.

“About the darkspawn to the south?” Carver asked.

“Yes, they say it is the start of another Blight. If it spreads, one of the first towns it will hit is here.” Sorana looked to everyone in the room in turn. “I will go and join the army to fight it.”

“No, you can’t! It’s far too dangerous.” Her mother said worriedly.

“I must, this is my home… _our_ home.”

Carver stood up from where he was sitting. “I want to go too.”

Sorana looked at him earnestly, searching his face, and then nodded.

Leandra stopped stirring the stew she had been preparing, frustrated. “But what if you get caught? Will you refrain from using magic just to protect us like your father?!” A sob escaped her, “and the darkspawn are monsters, you know the stories, of the corruption. You’ve never fought anything like them before.”

Sorana stood up and walked over to her mother, placing her hands on her shoulders. “There was a time when I hadn’t fought anything. Running is not always the answer.”

“Neither is fighting….”

“True, but if I can help protect others while protecting my family; I must…I must serve the best in me.”

Leandra pulled away from her eldest. “I hate it when you use his words against me like that.”

“I hate it too, but that does not make them any less true.”

“Fine, but Bethany stays.”

Bethany looked up at them from her work. “Don’t _I_ have a say in the matter?”

Sorana looked over at her, smiling gently. “Yes, but this is not something I would want to risk exposing you to. For me and Carver fighting has been a way of life for the past few years and Father never reached the level in martial training with you as he did with us.”

The eldest Hawke returned to her seat at the table. “I promise I will train you from where he left off once we return.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Bethany said, smiling as she always did.

So when the columns of soldiers started passing through the small town, Sorana and Carver prepared themselves for the journey. They signed up with one of the lesser noble’s forces and attired in the auxiliary armour they were provided, set off with the other recruits. Sorana had stashed her staff among the rafters of their home, asking Bethany to look after it in her absence. Carver took his own sword, stating that he trusted it far more than any blade produced on a large scale. Sorana took a spear, deciding it would be wisest to use a weapon she was familiar with.

The fifth Blight had begun.


	7. Origio Tentationibus

Life at the Circle in Ostwick was quiet, far less exciting than Samantha had expected when she was first brought there. She had always thought that the Circles were wreathed in mystery and magic; in truth the magic was kept at a minimum, at least for the apprentices. The Templar oversight, while unnerving at first, ensured that any mystery was kept to the bare minimum of dormitory gossip.

The young Trevelyan learned that life in the other Circles in Thedas was not all the same, they often varied depending on the cultures of the countries that they were located in and the dispositions of the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter. The Circles in the Free Marches varied greatly from city to city as each state had their own.  Apparently the Ostwick Circle was very sedate compared to the others; compared to Kirkwall that always seemed to have Mage-Templar tension. The Circles in Orlais were always deeply involved in the Game, the political manoeuvring that the Empire was constantly entrenched in. The Circle of Ferelden was probably the most balanced, but had a great deal of internal struggle between mages when it came to the fraternities.

Samantha was grateful for the relaxed nature of the Circle she was located in, if only because it meant that with the political clout her family had, she was occasionally allowed to visit them. There was always a pair of Templars that accompanied her on these visits, but it allowed her not to lose all contact with her loved ones. It was when returning from one of these trips that the unexpected happened.

They had just entered the courtyard that surrounded the gate of the first wall surrounding the Circle; the courtyard was intended to make the gate more defendable from an attacking force, but was also used by merchants to set up stalls and trade for magical and alchemical wares from and for those housed in the Circle.

It was already late in the day, as Samantha had set out as early as she could to spend most of the time that this privilege earned her productively. The sky was a fiery red as the sun reached the end of its daily journey and the courtyard had been largely emptied of people by this hour. Ahead of Trevelyan and her escort, though, was a similar group to her own: two Templars accompanying a man.

Everything seemed to be normal – just a new addition to the Circle, or perhaps a case similar to hers - until the trio drew nearer to the gate that led to the Circle’s inner courtyard. The man that was being escorted shouted out. One of the Templars that was with him grabbed onto his arm; this seemed to panic him as he tried to wrench from the holy soldier’s grasp. Not succeeding, he shouted out again.

“Get away from me!”

“Stand down, mage.” The Templar responded, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet.

The two Templars with Samantha bristled and loosened their swords in their sheaths, preparing for the worst. The few people that were still in the courtyard – merchants packing up, or those whose route home took them through the area – turned to look at the commotion.

“No! I won’t let you imprison me like you do those…those _sheep!_ ”

Fire formed around the man’s free hand and he punched it into the Templar’s chest. The result was a dull ‘thump’ as the world seemed to take a breath, and then let it all out again. The Templar and his companion were thrown from the man, who was thrown in the opposite direction. The one who had been hit was flung so hard that he collided with one of the pillars of the surrounding wall with a sickening crunch and then clattered to the floor. His companion was thrown onto the pavers, and slid a short distance. Dazed, he tried to get up again, but was struck down by a bolt of lightning. He spasmed uncontrollably and then collapsed as well.

By now Samantha’s escorts had drawn their swords and raised their shields, inching forward warily. She was paralysed, unable to move as these events played out before her – emerald eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. The others that had been in the courtyard had fled screaming and, recovering from where he had been flung, was the mage who had started it all.

He was now looking at his hand with a curious expression. It had been bloodied – the skin split from punching a breastplate – and sparks were still jumping across it from his most recent attack.

“So….” Despite his speaking so quietly, it still travelled clearly across the open space to the trio that was still in a position to hear him. “This is the power of blood.”

“Maker silence you, Maleficar!” The Templar to Samantha’s right called out, lowering his guard and pointing his sword at him, challenging him.

This seemed to rile up the man, who screamed back. “Damn the Maker! Damn him and his Chantry! Now burn, weakling!”

The Maleficar gestured at the Templar who had challenged him, but nothing happened. His face turned into an expression of confusion and disbelief. The two remaining Templars seized the opportunity and charged. When it seemed that they were almost on top of him and were about to cut him down, another thump shook the courtyard. Samantha blinked several times trying to clear her eyes to find out what had happened.

The second shock wave had sent her to the floor, market stalls crushed against the walls behind them, the two Templars that escorting her both lying on the ground. Blearily she took all of this in, the ringing in her head still too strong to allow for any coherent thought. Standing in the centre of the courtyard now, where the man had been a moment ago, was a monstrosity that was at least half his height taller than he had been.

It was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing – plain commoner’s garb – but the rest of the body was horribly warped, bulbous growths sprouting from its back to give it a hunched appearance. The arms were much longer and sinewy and had massive claws at the tip of each elongated finger; even creature’s skin had changed to a sickly beige. Slowly Samantha’s mind made the connection: Abomination. The man had allowed a demon to possess him.

One of the Templars that had charged him seemed to be struggling to get up. The abomination walked over to him, slow, deliberate steps. It laughed as it drew nearer to him and then picked him up by the neck with one of its mutated arms; the laugh was a deep, hollow, echoing sound, as if it were laughing into an empty barrel – as if it were laughing from an empty soul.

“Puny mortal, you have no power against me. Where is your Maker now?” The creature’s voice exhibited the same effects as its laughter did. Without flinching, it broke the windpipe of the man it was holding and tossed him to the ground like so much trash.

Samantha was still prone on the floor, unable to bring herself to move, unable to think. All she could do was watch in horror as the creature killed indiscriminately. It had reached the second Templar and after lifting him by a limp arm, punched straight through his breastplate and chest – arm emerging from his back seemingly unscathed by the platemail. It extracted the arm again, making a sucking noise as it pulled out of the now dead man’s body. The abomination discarded the second corpse just as it had the first – the mangled armoured body clattering to the now blood-stained cobbles.

Then it saw the young Trevelyan and with surprising speed appeared right in front of her, the strange gait it used seeming to move it at the speed a man could only run.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The creature said as it grabbed her by the scruff of her robes and dangled her in front of its horribly mangled face. Samantha could not quite tell where it was actually speaking from, where the man’s mouth used to be there was now a large muscular growth that seemed to twist around its face and back around the neck, adding to the hunched appearance. “A child mage…and such a pretty one too. No doubt one of the Templars’ pets.”

There was no other word for it – she was terrified. Her mind was a blank slate and all her limbs were made of lead. Nothing wanted to work. The abomination eyed her up and down, its eyes dead and lifeless, yet somehow still moving – whatever there was now, there was nothing left of the man it had once been. “Whatever shall I do with you?” the creature mused to itself.

“Shall I simply kill you for being such a sheep? Or shall I convince you to join me? How about it, _girl_ , how would you like to play with the Templars?”

Samantha could not bring herself to answer, the blind fear freezing everything. She could not fight, she could not submit. She could only hang there paralysed. “Whaaat? Nothing? My, but you are a dull one. You’re about as interesting as those four back there,” the abomination said, pointing over its shoulder with its free hand.

“You know, since you’re about as interesting as a dead person, how about you _become_ one!” Saying this, it drew its arm back to do her in as it had its previous victim. Just as Samantha thought that it was the end, the monster holding her shuddered, its face twisted into a look of confusion, then a second later a blade sprung from its chest.

Screaming, it dropped the young mage and turned around, wrenching the blade impaling it from the wielder’s grasp. “First Enchanter, some help here?” the Knight-Lieutenant nervously called, backing away from the creature.

“Yes, yes, of course,” The elderly man behind him responded briskly.

Thrusting his staff into the sky, it glowed a pale blue as condensation formed around it. The abomination, which had lifted its arm to swipe at the unarmed Templar before it, stopped with its arm still raised as the temperature of the air around it dropped significantly. Suddenly it was encased in ice, unable to move. The Knight-Lieutenant carefully stepped around it, and with some effort extracted his sword. Then he kicked the creature in the leg – it shattered at the impact and the whole thing collapsed to the ground, breaking into hundreds of gory pieces.

“What a mess….”

~o~

The terrain around Celestine was changing again, the giant mushrooms, warped walls and odd bits and pieces from reality were slowly being replaced by large spires of dark rock or metal that pierced into the green-hued sky. The giant trees that had been connecting the floating islands had also vanished when she hadn’t been looking. Where one of the larger islands had been obscuring her sight she could now see what seemed to be a distant city – dark edifices reaching into the Fade much like the dark formations near her – the Black City.

The place where, every mage was told, due to the hubris of the ancient Tevinter Magisters, the Maker had turned from his creation and the Darkspawn were born. Celestine spared a glance at the place that was the supposed location of such a cataclysmic event; she didn’t spend much time thinking about the events the Chantry taught had taken place, and while she believed that it was prudent to know what happened in the past to prevent similar mistakes in the future, she did not believe it necessary to dwell on such things.

The cobbled floor with its grey dust also started to give way, replacing it was a shale that seemed similar in substance to the black spires. But unlike the spires which were strangely glossy – as if polished – the groundcover was a dull matte, having been crushed underfoot until the smallest pieces were a dust unto themselves, that coated the larger pieces and stole away all the light that shone on them. At intervals the floor was split, emitting an eerie green light from an unknown source. The whole effect made it apparent that they were moving from what had been purely alien territory to undoubtedly hostile alien territory. Mouse moved as close as he could to Celestine without getting caught underfoot.

They reached a point where there were no more of the strange plants; instead, before them, the black rocks grew into canyons and cliffs. There seemed to be a path leading into them, but blocking their way was the form of a monstrous bear-like creature, that seemed to be lying, sleeping, before them.

It was easily twice the size of a normal bear, or at least what Celestine believed the size of a bear would be – she had never seen one herself. Its fur was patchy, with sores and strange growths protruding from its body. Hard spines lined the creature’s back and its claws were unnaturally large and long. She doubted that it was a beast of the mortal plain. It had one glowing yellow eye open which was lazily watching them as they approached.

“Mmm, _visitors_ …” the creature said. Celestine was unsure how, but the voice seemed to come from inside of her head, instead of from the creature itself, which had not moved since they had laid eyes upon it.

“Are you the demon I am to be tested against?”

“Demon, such an ugly term… you may call me… _Sloth_.” Every time the creature spoke it seemed as if it was about to fall asleep, with gaps in between phrases as if it were either yawning or stretching mid-sentence.

“Don’t toy with me, spirit. Are you to be my opponent or not?”

“My, my…so excitable; but to answer your question… no, I am not your foe. But I might, mmh…savour what’s left…once he is done with you.”

Seeming satisfied with this, Celestine merely nodded and stalked past the creature. Mouse followed suit, but tried to keep herself between it and him as much as possible. Before she entered the path into the cliffs though, she turned around sharply, causing Mouse to run into her. The large rodent sat on his hindquarters rubbing his snout while Celestine briskly addressed the sloth demon. “If there will be anything leftover when this is done, it will not be of me.”

Then as suddenly as she had stopped, she turned around again and disappeared into the ravine, blocking the bear-creature from sight. The path into the dark pillars was not a long one; after a sharp turn in the narrow path they emerged into a circular clearing. It was outlined by one of the cracks that had the same green light shining forth. The clearing itself, though, had small patches of flames burning – seemingly fuel-less – and the scent of brimstone was at its strongest here. The air reeked of molten rock, sulphur and fire.

“He is here!” Mouse called from near her ankle.

Celestine’s whole world seemed to shake and she heard a furious roar. In the middle of the clearing a spout of liquid fire erupted into the air. The two companions watched in rapt attention as the spout gathered together and formed into what was not a clearly defined body, but had what would possibly be called arms and a head, with glowing eyes that melted into the body without a proper neck or even mouth.

The fire creature roared again, the sound seeming to come from the very walls that surrounded them. Mouse squealed and scrabbled back to the path leading out. Celestine spared him a glance, but if she had wanted to follow it would not have worked, because as soon as the rodent had made it into the passage, the fire creature swung its amorphous arms upwards and flames erupted from the green crevasse, flowing over into the exit as if seeking to re-capture the mouse.

“Well, if you want me to stay that badly….”

Celestine clapped her hands together and then twisted her fingers into several symbols in quick succession before facing her open palms towards the creature. There was a loud crack as the floor beneath the creature erupted into massive icicles; the sudden decrease in temperature also caused a small area of air around it to sink very quickly and everything was coated with frost.

Seeing her foe immobilised so, she formed more symbols with her fingers and punched the air in front of her with her right arm, while holding onto it with her left. The air before her fist glowed green briefly – much like the light from the cracks in the floor - then chunks of dark shale appeared and flew together into a fist of rock that was twice the size of a man’s head. It then shot forwards into the frozen mass that had been the fire creature. The collision was so hard that the entire thing simply shattered, but instead of falling to the floor, the pieces simply vaporised.

As soon as the last piece disappeared, the flames that had erupted around them dwindled and died. Mouse was back to his human form, robes singed in places and smelling slightly of burnt hair. His eyes were wide as he looked around the clearing. “Woah, you actually did it….” He looked at Celestine reverently, “I know you said you would do it, but I never actually thought it possible….”

Celestine was walking around the clearing, brushing her hands along the black rock that made up the walls. “It was a great deal easier than I had expected it should have been. Anything can die; you would think the Harrowing would try a more, well… less straightforward approach.”

She walked over to the middle of the room where the demon had appeared, testing the ground there; it wasn’t even warm. Mouse walked over to her. “It doesn’t matter! You did it, the first in…too long.”

He smiled brightly, “You can go back now!”

Celestine looked up at him through her eyebrows, “What of you?”

As suddenly as it had appeared the smile vanished again, replaced by a sad look, “My body is long dead; I will never be able to leave this place. Unless….”

He glanced hopefully at her. “I could go with you!”

Celestine breathed in deeply. The scent of brimstone was gone and the air had returned to its tasteless state. “You know, I’m starting to believe that this demon of rage was not my intended challenge.”

She straightened up, looking Mouse in the eye. “Firstly, the Templars know of my potential, they would not test me in combat.” She turned around and went back to brushing the chamber walls while walking along them. “Secondly, the Harrowing only ends when one either wakes up or is possessed. The scenario that you said happened to you seems implausible; after all, when it comes to being patient and watching the most boring things, Templars would be my first choice to do that task.”

Celestine stopped walking again, turning to look at Mouse once more. “Thirdly, if anything, you would have been made Tranquil, which would have killed your spirit here.”

“So,” she continued, “while you chose the form of a man, it is hardly one I find alluring, and the character you have been displaying has been… disgustingly sycophant-like; there is only one conclusion I can come to: begone Pride, you have no hold over me, nor shall I succumb to your machinations.”

The whole of the Fade in which Celestine had been seemed to be sucked away, and was replaced by emptiness. Leaving her and Mouse alone, his face began to twist as he laughed. “Well done little mage; fear not, we shall meet again.”

By the time he was sucked away with the rest of the Fade he had sprouted several more eyes and his teeth had become pointed, grin twisting far further than any human mouth would have allowed. Then he was gone.

Celestine blinked, breathing in deeply. She panicked when she saw that she was no longer in the chamber at the top of the tower, but relaxed once she recognised the familiar knots in the wood of the bed above her in bunk she had been using since arriving at the Circle. Satisfaction and relief flooded her as realisation dawned ; she had made it, she was now a Mage of the Circle.

 

 


	8. Mutatio Inpello

The evening was bound to be a long one, as usual when the castle had visitors. After sending the twins to find Fergus, they had run into Ser Gilmore again, who came bearing a message from their mother; apparently Alfonse was managing to disrupt the kitchen staff again. It seemed that the Mabari had a knack for getting into Nan’s hair. The small group detoured from their objective of finding Fergus to quickly deal with the matter.

“I’m glad it’s you who I needed to approach about Alfonse, Erik,” Gilmore was saying as they wandered through the castle’s courtyards and corridors. “Your sister would probably only have gone to watch the chaos unfold while giggling gleefully.”

“Heeey! Ow!” She had punched him on the arm, forgetting that he still had his full armour on. “Why are you still wearing that monstrosity?!” she complained.

Erik and the knight merely chuckled, the former ruffling her hair. “There, there, Sis; not all of us are comfortable with running around in only a nug’s hide worth of leather, stabbing things.”

She stuck out her tongue at them and, crossing her arms, stalked past. “Fine! You go and play with your doggy. I’ll go see if I can help with the squires’ tutelage again.”

“’Help’ she says, as if she’s intending to do anything but distract their teacher from what he’s actually supposed to be doing,” Erik said as she walked past him again in the direction they had come, remembering that the library was in that direction.

“No spilling on my evil plots!” she called over her shoulder before disappearing around a corner.

As the two men neared the kitchen, they could hear the ruckus Alfonse was causing. Over the barking one could just barely make out Nan’s shrill yelling.

They marched into the kitchen to be greeted by a short elderly woman who wore her hair in a tight bun; she stuck a finger in Erik’s face as soon as she noticed them. “That bloody Mabari of yours is at it again! Get him out of my larder!”

“As you say Nan, just let me get past in one piece and I’ll set to doing just that.”

Nan stepped aside with a ‘Hmph’ and watched as the two men walked over to the larder’s door, entering it. The scene  was a curious one; the Cousland’s Mabari was standing in the corner of the room nearest the door, barking at the rest of the room as if the ingredients and items of food stored there were an audience.

The room itself was relatively small, only holding enough for the day’s meals since it was refilled every morning from the castle’s actual stores; it was also where the finer and more expensive menu items were kept.

“Hey boy, what are you doing here?” Erik asked - interrupting the barking performance.

The Mabari turned around enthusiastically and barked back.

“What is it boy, are you trying to tell me something?” The Cousland twin said as he scratched the massive hound’s ears.

Alfonse barked again, as if in affirmation, and hopped excitedly. He then turned back to the room and his demeanour seemed to change entirely; he growled at one of the larger stacks of crates, getting onto his hackles.

Erik immediately picked up it. “Gilmore, draw your blade. Something’s not right here.”

The flame-haired knight nodded silently; he knew better than to question when Erik used that tone. He pulled his hunting dagger from its sheath at his boot. Erik unsheathed the sword at his hip, it not being too long to wield in the somewhat confined space of the larder.

As soon as the blades were bared, Alfonse lunged at the stack. To the shock of the two men there, a massive rat jumped from the shadows behind it, making an almost feline hissing sound. The creature was a monstrous example of its species – larger than a badger.

The creature backed into a corner, small evil eyes leering at the dog and the two humans. It made the hissing sound again and without warning smaller – but still large – rats sprang from other hiding spots.

“Oh how cliché….” Erik muttered as the swarm of rats ran at them.

They spent the next minute knee-deep in rats, the rodents unable to do anything to the two warriors in their armour and the Mabari being too quick for them despite its bulk. Alfonse struck at the edges of the swarm, picking off rats one by one as opportunities presented themselves. Erik and Ser Gilmore waded into the midst of them, stomping down with heavy armoured boots. Gilmore held his knife at the ready but only used it to kill the rats that he grabbed when they tried to climb his legs. Erik swung his sword around, cutting the rats down in twos and threes. When rats tried to climb up him he simply pulled them off with his free hand and flung them at his dog to finish off or to the floor again where he could crush them.

They eventually managed to kill most of the vermin and the remaining ones scattered back into the shadows as Ser Gilmore plunged his dagger into the skull of the first and largest of them. It died with a pitiful squeak, far different from the aggressive hissing it had been doing until that point.

“Giant rats,” he said, cleaning his blade on a scrap of cloth he had found in a corner. “Sounds like the beginning of every bad adventure tale my granpa used to tell.”

After the knight had cleaned his blade he tossed the cloth to Erik who also used it to clean his weapon. “Indeed, but those were no ordinary rats. That one there could eat my sister’s cat!” the Cousland said, pointing at the giant specimen Gilmore had killed.

“That cat would probably have confused it into suicide before it managed to be eaten,” the knight said grinning. When Alfonse had been imprinted on Erik, their parents had gotten Elisa a kitten to assuage any feelings of jealousy. Strangely enough the cat was a stark contrast of intelligence when compared to the dog – something that would normally not be attributed to its species. Those who got to know the feline were all convinced that it had been dropped on its head before being gifted to the other twin, which seemed only to endear the cat to her. It spent most of its time meowing at windows and walking into things.

But then Ser Gilmore’s face turned grave. “Jests aside, I have seen these before; they are native to the Korcari Wilds. For them to come this far north, there must truly be something to this talk of a Blight; I doubt animals would come this far north were it only a raid.”

Erik had finished cleaning his sword and returned it to its sheath and turned to the larder’s doorway, patting his leg, indicating that Alfonse follow. “Then I suppose we should make all haste to inform Fergus, both of this and the errand father sent me and Elisa on… I doubt she’s completed it.”

The two men made their way to the residential wing of the castle. One of the servants had nearly fainted upon seeing the carnage in the larder, but Nan’s iron fist had ensured that it would be cleaned up – after all, they had guests to feed this evening. In the foyer to the wing they ran into Elisa again, who had a slightly worried expression on her face.

“Sister, something troubling you?” Erik asked as soon as she drew nearer.

“Yes, they are asking me to help more with the squire’s tuition!” she exclaimed, mortified.

Ser Gilmore had to laugh at this; Erik merely grinned wryly, saying: “And here we were, ending the tyrannical reign of the Rat King of Highever, praying that our beloved sister would not be too disruptive while we were engaged.”

“Rats? Eurgh…I should really get Alfonse to teach Brambles what other purpose claws and teeth can have aside from cleaning oneself. At least that explains the smell,” Elisa said, rumpling her nose.

“Well, now that my task is complete I should probably prepare to meet this Warden everyone is speaking about,” Ser Gilmore said. “Don’t get lost on the way to finding your brother.”

Splitting up, the twins headed off into the wing to find Fergus together, passing by the Teyrna who was busy speaking to more visitors who had come. Tyrna Eleanor had decided she would visit among the lesser nobles for the duration of the fighting so that the twins would not feel she were undermining them, nor  would rely on her for everything. Even now things had been planned to allow for the best growth, even for those not heading to battle. Eleanor Cousland would host the first of these families in Castle Highever that evening and then set off to their lands in a day's time.

The pair found Fergus Cousland in his quarters, where he was finishing up his packing and bidding his wife and son goodbye. “And here are my little brother and sister to see me off. Now dry your eyes, Love, and wish me well,” the Cousland heir said as the twins entered his chambers. Oriana, his wife, and Oren, his son, were also in the room, the prior trying vainly to hide teary eyes. The latter jumped up excitedly from where he had been sitting at the bed’s foot upon seeing who the new arrivals were.

“Uncle Erik! Aunt Lisa! My dad is gonna fight barksawn!”

“Aha!” Elisa cried as she caught up the youngster, “’Barksawn’ you say?” After setting him down again she crouched before him, looking him into the eyes with a serious expression. “And pray tell, what are these creatures? Sawn up barks? That would explain perfectly why Alfonse hasn’t been sounding the same lately.”

“No, Aunt Lisa!” Oren launched into an explanation of what he thought was happening. The three others assembled in the room just looked on, bemused. Finally Erik turned to his elder brother. “Father wanted us to tell you to prepare to leave with the troops today. Arl Howe’s forces are running late and will only arrive on the morrow – he will travel with those.”

Erik looked to the antics of his twin and nephew. “Elisa would of course, prefer to go to war with you and I would be lying if I said I were not concerned myself.” He then gave his brother a sombre look. “Ser Gilmore and I killed Korcari Rats in the larder; that they would be driven this far north bodes ill.”

Fergus put an arm around Erik’s shoulder and patted him heartily on the chest. “Trust me, I would feel that much safer having either or both of you at my side. But I hear the fighting is going well and by the time I arrive all that may be left are darkspawn corpses.”

“Please still be careful Dear,” Oriana said, her voice carrying a trace of an Orlesian accent. “I could not bear to lose you.” Oriana was the daughter of a wealthy Orlesian merchant; she and Fergus had gotten to know one another when he had stopped by Castle Highever on the way home from business in Denerim.

She was a beautiful woman, with fair skin and auburn hair. As all Orlesians, she had a fondness for facial paint and make-up, but her stay in Ferelden had resulted in her only using it sparingly to accentuate what was already a lovely face. She was only slightly shorter than Elisa, but unlike her sister-in-law, she preferred courtly vestments to those of battle.

It was rare to see relationships such as hers and Fergus’ blossom, considering the animosity between the two countries, especially among the nobility. But while some believed the eldest Cousland to have turned his back on his nation, others thought that it was a sign of better relations in the future. The rulers of Highever never paid this talk any heed though. To them they were family and that was all that mattered.

“Daddy, are you gonna bring me a soword?” Oren asked in a begging tone, seemingly having grown tired of whatever it was he and Elisa had ended up talking about.

“That’s _sword_ , Oren.” Fergus said chuckling, “and I’ll bring you the biggest, sharpest sword I find.”

“Absolutely not!” Oriana said emphatically, “You can get him a sword when he comes of age. I’ll not have our son running around with a monstrous blade at such a tender age.”

The future Teyrn simply laughed good naturedly at his wife’s objections, “He’ll need to learn how to use one eventually, but I’ll let you hold onto the one I get until you deem him old enough.” He turned to address the twins again. “I hear Ser Gilmore is a potential recruit for the Grey Wardens, although if I were to have a say I’d think you would be the far better candidates.”

“Father won’t hear of it,” Elisa said sullenly.

Fergus chuckled again – he was a very happy person – “Then I shall simply have to kill enough darkspawn for the both of us.”

That was when the door opened and their parents walked in. “So, we weren’t too late to miss wishing you farewell after all,” Bryce Cousland said upon entering.

“I’m still not sure how I feel about both of you going to fight those… _monsters_. Maker, protect us,” Eleanor prayed.

Fergus grinned broadly, “And send us some ale and wenches while you’re at it!” seemingly not concerned what his mother and wife would think of it.

Oren looked up at his father curiously, “What’s a wench? Is that what you pull to get the bucket out of a well?”

The Teyrn looked down sternly at his only grandchild. “A wench is a woman who pours ale in a tavern, Oren; or, uh… a woman who drinks a lot of ale.”

The Teyrna sighed heavily. “ _Men_ , at least the twins are more sensible.”

Elisa looked at her mother with a shocked expression, “ _I_ happen to be very good at wenching.”

“Sister,” Erik deadpanned, “you’ve not touched drink since Bann Troy’s tourney.”

“Spoilsport.”

Fergus looked at the twins, “You two look after Mother while we’re away.”

Elisa made dismissing gestures. “Pff, mother can scold any foe into submission. We have the safest teyrner.”

“Watch it, young lady,” Eleanor responded in with a warning tone.

“See what I mean?!”

“Be that as it may,” Fergus said, “I should probably head off - so many darkspawn to kill, so little time to do it in.”

The small family meeting drew to an end then, with Fergus leaving. The twins finalised any plans that needed to be gone through with their father for the running of the castle before he left in the morning. Then they too went on their way. The evening meal was a simple one, considering that the castle had so many visitors. But the air was different from what it was normally like; it held portends of war.

Everyone eventually headed off to bed, some to make last minute preparations for departing, but it was not long until the castle fell asleep, and while there was a particular tenseness to the mood, it was still peaceful and likely the last peace the castle would have for a very long time.


	9. Tentatienibus Inpello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apostates and Betrayal

  
Illustration by: [Yours truly](http://e153n.deviantart.com/art/Road-to-Ostagar-559889422)

The progress made by the auxiliaries was slow. Only a few of the men and women recruited from the freeholders were in any condition to be able to keep up the forced march they had been subjected to for an extended length of time. The main force gathered by the king and most nobles had already made it to Ostagar, an ancient fortress built by the Tevinter Imperium of old to defend against the Chasind. It seemed fitting that the ruin would serve to protect from a threat in the south once more.

Sorana watched the men and women around her. She was sitting on her pack, polishing the shaft of the spear she had taken with an oil, whose properties, if known to the Templars, would have made it illegal. It was like most oils used to polish weapons, with one simple addition: lyrium. She had bought powdered lyrium from a shady dwarf the last time they had passed through Denerim and had added it to what at the time had been simple – if good quality – weapon oil. The result was an oil that would allow for far better conduction of magic through whatever it was applied to.

Every time the column had stopped to rest she had used the opportunity to treat her new weapon with the concoction. The use of the oil on a blade was minimally effective;, it would only hold a very thin coating and would eventually be either washed or wiped off in the traditional manner, considering the blade’s use. Wood, though, would absorb the oil, strengthening it in addition to allowing far better magic conductivity. This trick allowed Sorana to create a makeshift staff out of almost any reasonable tree limb.

It bordered on amusing, seeing normal people and Templars walk by her as she, an apostate, crafted a weapon that would be capable of unleashing unimaginable destruction if used correctly. Carver eventually sidled over to her, offering a bowl of stew – the day’s evening ration. “This is pathetic,” he said, tone condescending. “I doubt many, if any of these people, have even held a sword before, and they are supposed to stop _darkspawn_?”

Sorana didn’t look at him as she answered, slowly eating the food she’d been given. “Some are here because they have no choice; some for reasons similar to our own. Others are here merely to kill with an open licence and others yet because of naïve notions of the glory that’s to be won.”

She put down the now-empty bowl. “Whether we stop the darkspawn or not, each of us will have a role to play in the fight to come, have no doubt of that.”

“Bah!” Carver said, making a dismissive gesture. “There you go again with the putting on of supposedly wise airs. Spare me the prattle and just make sure not to blow our cover too soon, if at all possible.”

Sorana just smiled sadly; she knew not what, but something was giving her an uneasy feeling about all that was happening. She pushed her melancholy thoughts aside; it was probably only a by-product of the Blight.

They set up camp for the night where they had stopped and set off again in the morning. Eventually they reached the fortress that was possibly one of the last signs of civilization before the inhospitable south. Ostagar’s great white columns and arches pushed through the trees and wilderness like the spines of a long dead dragon. Only two structures seemed to have weathered time well: the great bridge spanning the ravine in the centre of the fortress and the giant tower that greeted them as they approached.

“At the very least we have a solid, defendable position,” Carver muttered as he and Sorana moved along with the other auxiliary troops.

The elder Hawke absorbed the ancient structure as they wandered past, marvelling at the stonework and architecture. She could not help but think about its builders, the Tevinter. A society where magehood was not shunned, but embraced, but there were  also  pitfalls in such a society. The life of others suddenly lost a great deal of value when slavery and blood magic didn’t attract a second glance.

Sorana could see makeshift watchtowers being erected, along with palisades, to fortify the Ostagar tower’s position. Even more men were bustling around the base of the tower itself. Obviously it would be pivotal in whatever battle plans were being laid.

The column started making its way across the bridge to the other side of the ruin, where the army encampment was. Below them, even more defensive structures were being built into the ravine and the surrounding cliff walls. From the bridge’s height, it looked like the men were scurrying over their emplacements like so many ants. Sorana wondered if Ferelden had ever mustered such an army, although what she was seeing was probably far from all the armed forces in the kingdom. She had heard from talk among the soldiers that key nobles had been instructed to stay behind with their garrisons to maintain order while the king waged war in the south.

The auxiliaries passed several brightly coloured pavilions on their way to the main army camp; no doubt this part of the fortress had been reserved for people of importance - those _above the rabble_. The two Hawkes eventually found themselves in the army camp with nothing to do as their group had been given a short break after setting up their tents to recover from the march.

Carver muttered something about a game of dice, while Sorana eventually decided to wander over to the colourful pavilions they had passed earlier. On closer observation, it seemed as though her judgement had been slightly misplaced. The area hadn’t been reserved for the nobility after all; instead, most areas in that zone were designated for specialized groups and organisations that had gathered to fight. Pavilions had been erected for the three most powerful families in Ferelden: Theirin, Mac Tir and Cousland. The other zones were for those that had come from the Circle of Magi, Ash Warriors, Chantry, and, of course, the Grey Wardens. Sorana found that the quartermaster and infirmary had also been located in this section of the keep. All in all, it was the nexus of power in Ostagar. She continued to explore a bit more and observe the people who stayed until she deemed that it was probably best that she return to her battalion.

~o~

“All right greenhorns, listen up!”

The squad Sorana had been assigned to stood in slightly misshapen ranks, the sergeant marching up and down before them, bellowing at the top of his lungs. He was a hardened man who sported an impressive moustache in addition to an ugly scar running across his nose.

They were closer to the edge of the camp now and it was easy to see how the wilderness was slowly absorbing Ostagar. There was also a foul stench in the air that burned the sinuses as one inhaled. The eldest Hawke wondered if it was something coming in from the outside of the camp, or if it was some potion that the alchemists were cooking up.

“So, you all think you have what it takes to defend Ferelden, eh?! Well guess what?! _You don’t!_ ”

The man stopped pacing, turning to face the squad. “And _I’m_ here to make sure that you don’t die within a day of being here!”

Then he gestured to the floor at his feet. Sorana strained to see what he was pointing at, only to find what the most likely source of the horrible scent was. It was a corpse, shorter than elf or human, but far stockier. The creature wore scraps of armour that seemed to have been salvaged from various sets and was badly maintained. There was an ugly gash running from its left shoulder across its chest to the belt line, clearly the cause of death.

One of the soldiers assembled threw up. Sorana merely wrinkled her nose in disgust. So _that’s_ the darkspawn. As if to confirm her thoughts the sergeant continued: “This here is a Darkspawn, a Genlock, to be precise. These are the most common ‘spawn you will encounter; they are vicious, cruel and cunning and they will kill _you_ , _your family_ and everyone you know unless _you_ kill the sons of bitches _first_!”

The sergeant looked at the motley group assembled before him with a beady eye, as if challenging them. “Now form up into real ranks and get ready to march; we’ll be patrolling just outside the southern palisade in the valley. I hope you all know how to use those weapons, because you _will_ be using them!”

~o~

One dagger intercepted the sword’s downward swing, deflecting it away from its intended target; the other cut upwards, under the assailant’s guard, into his armpit. The man gurgled as the keen edge found his heart, strength leaving his legs as the life bled out of him, leaving his face frozen in a mask of shock.

Elisa twirled around, crouching just in time to dodge a blade that came for her head. Moving like water, she carried the momentum into her next attack as she pushed up with her legs, her whole body uncoiling like a spring. She cut the second attacker from groin to chest; he cried out, flailing with his weapon to claim a final revenge. But Elisa was already gone, running to rescue one of the guards who was being attacked.

Erik was also embattled; wielding his sword and shield he was keeping three men occupied. He, like his sister, was a master at his art. One of the soldiers lunged at him, but instead of blocking with his shield, he parried the blow with his sword and then swung the shield around to impact with the unfortunate man’s head. The man’s eyes crossed as his helmet gave off a ringing noise at the impact, denting horribly under the power of the blow.

The other two tried to take advantage of their unfortunate friend’s distraction, but Erik merely shifted his footing and brought his shield up, shrugging off the one attack. The other never made it that far, his eyes wide as he tried to look at the crimson-coated arrow growing out of his throat.

The twin nodded his thanks to his mother, who was standing at the end of the room wielding a longbow. Her attire was in stark contrast to the finery she had been wearing earlier that evening; instead of the tasteful gown, she was now wearing aged leather armour. Erik had thrown on a mail hauberk and Elisa was not wearing any armour at all, flying through the room in her nightgown that was quickly turning red from the blood of her foes.

Finally enemies stopped pouring into the residential wing, Eleanor stopping two who tried to flee the carnage with well placed arrows. The guards that had survived the initial assault wearily took positions at the doorway leading to the rest of the castle as the three Couslands came together to take stock of the situation.

“Seems like they came here in force,” Erik commented, looking for something to clean his sword with.

“And with good reason,” the Teyrna added. “If there is no nobility left to claim Highever, that dog can easily subdue any other opposition, and from the looks of things he plans to make sure that none of the castle staff will be allowed to remain alive as witnesses to this treason either.”

“Clearly he didn’t overcompensate when he sent that small army here.” Elisa muttered, a dark look in her face.

There was a short pause, nobody wanting to say anything. There had only been one other time when the beautiful woman had had that look in her eye, a feral glint that promised death to any that stood in her way. Eleanor had never seen her daughter in such a state, but she could easily understand why; where grief seemed to be swallowing the older woman’s heart, rage was consuming the younger’s.

At a casual glance, Erik seemed to be his calm self, but the normal warmth that he emanated was missing. Instead of the reassuring, witty, reserved man he usually was, he now to emitted an aura of chilled detachment.

“Sister,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion, “find something suitable to wear. I shall go see if I can find a pair of breeches for myself as well.”

Elisa nodded and headed back the way they had come, to her chambers.

They came together again after having equipped themselves, Elisa now wearing an outfit similar to her mother’s. Erik had found breeches and a solid pair of boots and was busy strapping on a pair of vambraces he had taken from a dead soldier.

“I don’t ever want to make that trip again…past _that_ room,” Elisa said after returning.

“That is a sentiment I fully agree with,” Erik muttered. “But  to not ever have to walk past there again and to make sure the bastard who started all of this gets his due, we need to get out of here.”

The Teyrna nodded. “We should find your father first. He was still in council with Howe when I went up to bed.”

“Let’s pray that he is still alive then.”

~o~

The fighting through the castle was brutal, not only because of the opposition they faced, but from the shock of seeing what had been their lifelong home and the promised  home of their children go up in flames and blood. Every room seemed to have the stiffening bodies of once-familiar faces,  now so alien in the rictus of death, with looks of fear and confusion blemishing memories that had once been a joy to recall.

Erik now bore the sword and shield of Highever, ancient family heirlooms they had saved from the vault before the attacking soldiers had managed to break through the thick wooden doors that protected a small fortune. The twin was a beacon to those survivors still holding out against the attacking forces, the bright blade cutting through all foes and the proud heraldry on the shield bringing hope to the defenders who saw it. At his side, his sister darted in and out of combat, striking and vanishing as if a ghost. From behind them, the Teyrna loosed shaft after shaft into any oncoming foe. All those who managed to escape that night would spread the tale of how valiantly the Couslands had fought to defend their home against unbeatable odds. 


	10. Kelch

The elderly man walked through the echoing halls with a confidence born of years of living among them. His stride was purposeful and in stark contrast to what one would normally expect of someone of his age. Even in his twilight years, the man made sure that his body was in prime condition.

After a lengthy journey through the winding corridors he finally reached it. A door, set into the stone, it had no particular markings or characteristics that would let it stand out among the others. Yet here the man stopped, and after a short pause, as if gathering himself, walked up to it and used the knocker to rap a quick staccato – the noise bouncing off the stone walls and magnifying exponentially.

Several seconds later, one could hear a bolt being withdrawn on the other side, and golden candle-light spilt into the corridor as the door opened a crack, a worried face peering through to see who the visitor was. Recognising the elderly man, the face mumbled an apology and moved to open the door further.

“First Enchanter, it is good to see you!” the mousy woman who had opened the door said breathily.

Behind her was a small chamber with a simple bed. There was a tray of bread and water set on a small table that stood against the one wall and domineering over it all was the figure of a fully-armoured Templar. While it seemed that the holy soldier was trying not to be out of place, he was failing miserably. In the far corner, on the other side of the bed was a small form huddled away as if trying to hide. Even from where the First Enchanter stood, he could see that the body was shivering, the tremors only being interrupted by the occasional sob.

“I take it that there has been little change since last week?”

“None at all M’lord,” the woman replied demurely.

“Hmmm,” the man mused to himself, “A pity, she showed such potential.”

He turned to leave, and as he reached the door he looked over his shoulder again, “Keep up the vigil, what the poor girl bore witness to that night was far too much for a mind that tender. We do not know how it may have affected her and if demons will be able to exploit it.”

The Templar brought his right fist over his heart in salute, bowing his head slightly. With that, the First Enchanter left the room and the maid spared a pitying glance for the dishevelled form in the corner and closed the door after, leaving to retire for the night.

_“In the dark where dwarves do die,_

_Creatures of the darkness cry,_

_Hear the monsters’ hollow roar,_

_Hear the drums of holy war,_

  


_When the legends of the sky_

_And the shackled do defy;_

_Know that she approaches,_

_A heraldship she poaches._

_From the world across he comes_

_Thedas into turmoil runs.”_

The Knight-Templar shivered as the haunting words carried across the still air from the girl huddled in the corner. He tightened the strap on his shield and then gripped the hilt of his sword. Maker willing they would decide what to do with her soon, for even as much as he pitied the thing, the red-haired girl scared him more than anything natural had the right to.

~o~

Elisa walked into something large, and from the texture, leathery. She bounced off it and landed in the dirt of the road, groaning. “Urgh, did you have to stop in the _middle_ of the way?!” she complained as the large leather object before her turned around.

The leather object happened to be her twin brother’s travel-pack and he was wearing a weak smile as he leaned down to help her up. “No, but someone has to make sure your zombie-walks don’t last forever.”

She grumbled as he lifted her, “Not everyone has the endurance of a Qunari like you. Besides, switching off helps in more ways than one….”

At this Erik only nodded. No words were needed. They had lost everything at Highever, everything but the clothes on their backs and the weapons they bore. So far the only survivors of that nightmare that they knew of had been them; even their parents eventually died in protecting each other and their home.

Alfonse walked up besides Elisa and pushed his head into her hand, licking it. She smiled at the dog’s attempt at comforting her and crouched down before him, wrapping her arms around his thick muscled neck. “At least we still have you Alfie,” she said, the fur muffling her words.

“The reason for our stopping, Lady Cousland, is that we have finally arrived at Ostagar.”

It was Duncan who spoke; the aged Grey Warden commander had also survived the attack by Arl Howe on their family home, attesting to the skill that was always attributed to those of the Order. He was now also the lifeline for the twins. While they might have survived the slaughter of their family, they no longer had much in the way of land or resources. They would be defenceless against the machinations of whoever had instrumented the death of their parents.

With his last words, Teyrn Bryce Cousland had asked Duncan to take his youngest into the Order, so that they might survive the oncoming storm and perhaps even recover what the family had lost. Now they were at Ostagar, the first line of defence against the recent Darkspawn incursions.

Elisa looked up and around, noticing the marble ruins for the first time. “Well, if that’s the case, then let’s get to whoever is in charge here and tell them to kill Arl Howe.”

The small group set off together again, towards where the army was camped. “That might not be an immediate option, my Lady,” Duncan said as they walked, “The king himself has been fighting and recently we have been victorious in every engagement.”

“Well it seems like everything is perfect then! Forget the Darkspawn -- kill...Howe.”

“My Lady Cousland, with every attack the Darkspawn numbers are growing. Many doubt us Wardens, but this is indeed a Blight and it is not won until the Archdemon shows itself and is destroyed.”

“Hmph!” Elisa pursed her lips and folded her arms, sulking. “And stop calling me ‘My Lady’. I hate it. Plus I’m not a lady of anything at the moment anyway.”

Duncan’s face cracked into a grin, most of it hidden by his beard. “As you wish… my Lady.” At this Erik burst out laughing, the sound coming out somewhat strangled. Elisa merely harrumphed again and sulked deeper.

Soon the party came upon a barricade in the ancient road. Two soldiers that were playing cards on stumps of wood looked up at their approach. One got up and walked up to them, lifting his hand to indicate that they stop. “State name and business, Citizens.”

As the last word left his mouth the pip of a peach flew out from under one of the nearby pines and bounced off his head.  He turned sharply, addressing the tree, “Oi, what was that for?! Hi’m conducting official business ‘ere!”

“Don’t be such a potato, Garrod,” the tree responded in a female voice, “That beardy one is the Warden-Commander and by the looks of those threads and armour the other two are nobility, not to mention a Mabari! Never question a Mabari.”

Alfonse barked enthusiastically, agreeing.

“Ah,” the man responded, “right you are ser. Pardon me, Warden-Commander, I’ll have the barricade out of the way in a moment.”

The man moved past his comrade who was snickering to himself and kicked the stool he was sitting on from under him, sending the man into the dust. “Don’t sit there laughin’ an’ all that, help me with this thing.”

Duncan and Erik waited calmly while the two soldiers laboured to move the barricade aside. Meanwhile, Elisa was looking at the trees with a strange expression. But as soon as the way was clear the party moved onwards, heading into the camp.

The woman’s voice came from the tree again, “Soon as you got that thing in place again, Lond, take a message to the king and let him know the Warden-Commander has returned, probably with more warden recruits in tow.”

“Yes ser, ma’am ser.”

Lond flinched as a pinecone bounced off his shoulder.

~o~

 

Sorana watched as the small group went past from her place beneath the low-hanging boughs. The girl had stared at her for a while; well, at the tree. There was something about them that the eldest Hawke could not put her finger on, something that seemed to be screeching for attention at the back of her mind. But try as she might, nothing came. So she did the soldier’s thing, and did nothing while she could. Leaning against the tree beside her was her spear, the wood now nocked and the blade chipped from the encounters she’d had with the Darkspawn.

There had not yet been need for her to use magic to defend herself, but if it arose, she would be ready. The oil she had been treating her spear with had by now worked itself well into the wood and  would conduct magic as well as any average mage’s staff.

Her prior experience had won her some attention higher up though. She had been put in command of a small group of soldiers from the auxiliaries, all of who had been blooded in combat by now. It had taken some a few days to recover from their first exposure to the harsh reality of war, but Sorana had promised herself that she would do her best to protect those she was responsible for.

The travellers had been coated in dust from the road, and their equipment seemed to have seen recent use, but there was no doubt about it - they were not your average Warden recruit, stolen off the gallows. Both the man and girl had a fluidity to their step that spoke of years of marching experience, and their physique was too hard to be that of anything but fighters. But there was something else about them that nagged at Sorana, a hollowness to their eyes that betrayed the somewhat-forced looking smiles on their faces. These people knew the truth of this hard world, and had been reminded of it recently.

There was also the fact that the Warden-Commander had gone so far as to recruit nobility. Sorana had heard the talk around the campfires; some thought that this was no true Blight, as those of legend; there was talk that even the king might share this sentiment. But the Grey Wardens were adamant in their belief. In their eyes, this was a Blight and as they were supposed to be the foremost authority on the matter there had to be _something_ to the claims.

The recent influx of recruits was proof of how the Wardens felt; elves, dwarves and humans of every stripe seemed to have joined the Order over past month that the Hawkes had spent at Ostagar. Every week, one of the more seasoned wardens came in with fresh blood in tow. But these were not what one normally thought of when one pictured a recruit. The ones that followed the Wardens to join their order all had the same look about them: bodies that bespoke a lifetime-struggle to survive and coming out on top, eyes that were haunted with sights that would cause the faint-of-heart to collapse, and, strangely enough, an unwavering faith in those who led them.

Another oddity was that there seemed to be two of every race recruited by the Wardens. Sorana wondered if it had been planned that way, or if it was just chance.  A squad had returned from scouting the deep roads beneath Orzammar for clues to this Blight with two dwarves in tow, a scruffy male that seemed to want to fade into the non-existing crowds at every opportunity and a proud woman that kept pace with the taller human’s stride using a brisk march. There had been a warden that had returned from Denerim after retrieving some wares from the Warden cache there. He had been tailed by two elves, one clearly Dalish if one were to judge by the exotic armour and face-markings, the other had probably been picked up in the capital, seemingly uncomfortable in the wilderness.

Now the Warden-Commander himself returned and he too had a pair in tow, humans this time. The man wore plate armour of a quality Sorana had rarely seen – if not a full set. Traveling in full plate-mail was not a pleasant experience; he probably shed the less vital pieces and had them stored in his pack. The hilt and sheath of the sword at his side seemed of a metal and craftsmanship that one would be hard-pressed to find. She smiled at that, thinking of Wade, the smith whom she had requisitioned to forge the blade of her true staff.

Then there was the woman. She wore primarily tight, form-fitting leather that would be sure to catch the eye of any man – and some women. In vital areas, though, it had armour plating bonded to the leather, as though it were armour created for dexterity instead of actual protection. Sorana was curious to see how the woman fought; no doubt it would be a spectacle worth beholding.

She idly wondered about what it would be like amongst such a company as the Wardens. Where no one had a similar beginning, but all lived, worked and fought together as equals. Lond returned to his post at the barricade, having relayed his message to the King. He and Garrod had moved on from their game of cards and were now playing with dice. Sorana was so lost in thought that when one of them cried out she almost lost her seating.

“Shit boss! It’s _you!_ ”

Trying to regain her composure, grateful for her spot behind the branches having spared her pride, she called, somewhat angry at the outburst for it having caught her so off guard.

“The hell do you mean?!”

“There’s another one of them Warden people coming back, that strange blonde bloke with the fancy hair.”

“You mean Alastair?”

“S’pose.”

All of the women in the camp had eyed up the handsome young warden at some point or other. Sorana had worked as a mercenary for several years now, but even so, some of the plans the girls came up with for the poor man had made even her blush a colour she was not used to seeing on the _outside_ of people.

“What’s that got to do with me?” She wondered if this was just her companions trying to get her to fall victim to some prank.

“Well…I dunno, but you’re _there_ , with _him_. Ser, you should just see this for yourself.”

~o~

Celestine could not believe it. She had lived her whole life knowing – if not always wanting to – that she would spend all her time in the Circle, under the watchful eye of the Templars and mistrusted by the other mages. Now here she was, tailing a Grey Warden who had no right to be such fun to watch.

Admittedly, the events that had led up to her coming here had been…less than stellar. But now she was here, and she was _free_ – or at least as free as a mage could probably get without being branded Tranquil.

After her Harrowing, she had woken to find a very worried Jowan waiting for her outside the dormitory; the reason for his state was the belief that he would never be Harrowed, that he was destined for Tranquility.

This claim had been backed by his finally exposed lover, a sweet thing called Lily. She had said that she’d overheard it from Templars while she had been performing her duties at the Circle chapel. Celestine had not entirely believed the girl, but Jowan was the only friend she could recall ever having, and so she had pledged to help.

The small group had managed to break into the Circle’s vault, and after briefly getting side-tracked, tried to find an entrance to the Phylactery Chamber. After Jowan’s Phylactery had been destroyed they planned to have him escape with the help of Lily. But it was not to be; both the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter had been waiting for the trio just outside the vaults.

Everything fell apart then. Jowan had been accused of practicing blood-magic, the reason for his getting slated for Tranquility. It had shocked both Lily and Celestine, when the young man had pulled a dagger from his robes and cut his palm. Using the power gained from the blood, he had rendered everyone in the room unconscious and fled.

Lily, horrified at the prospect that she had been accomplice to a blood-mage…that the man she loved had been a blood mage, immediately turned herself in. Celestine pitied her; she had read of the Templar prison at Aonar – the place Lily was no doubt destined for after her part in this. Irving and Greagoir had argued about the fate of Celestine. The First Enchanter was the closest thing the newly-minted mage had to a father and it seemed he had similar feelings.

The Knight-Commander, on the other hand, had always been weary of Celestine, ever since the events on their journey to the Circle when he had first picked her up. When it seemed that despite having passed her Harrowing that Celestine still might face the rite of Tranquility, an unexpected party stepped in and wrenched her fate from both Templars and Mages.

Alastair, the Grey Warden who had been visiting the Circle to request additional mage support for the fight against the Darkspawn, had invoked the Rite of Conscription. This seemed to please Irving no end, while having the opposite effect on the Knight-Commander. So it came to be that Celestine packed her meager belongings together and for the first time, took the boat that left the Circle.

The Grey Warden proved to be interesting company; the first thing he did as they set foot on the other side of the lake was jump from the ferry and, whooping, called out: “Freedom!”

His mage companion looked at him with a raised brow, “Sirrah, I believe the role of formerly oppressed mage is mine.”

Alastair looked around, as if seeing her for the first time, he blushed. “Er, well, by all means, if you feel inclined to yell at no-one and everyone in particular, go ahead.”

Celestine looked as if she were contemplating it and after a short pause replied, “Naah, I’ll leave that to you, since you seem to have it so well in hand.” She smiled sweetly at him. “That said, why would you feel oppressed there to begin with?”

“Oh, uh, I suppose it’s best to spill all the dirty laundry before it becomes an issue.” The Grey Warden was trying to talk to her by looking at her, but not actually looking at her, eventually he settled for just staring at the ground at his feet and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “The reason I was given this assignment was because of my previous ties to the Chantry. Duncan hoped my knowing something of how things worked would help in the negotiation.”

Celestine’s eyebrows evened out -- now both were raised. There were few roles for men in the female-dominated Chantry which meant that the most likely….

“Yep, you guessed it! Half-baked Templar at your service. Well almost half-baked, well actually maybe a bit burnt? A burnt-dough Templar!”

Celestine had started to worry, but the manner in which the Warden ended up trying to describe himself as a state of culinary process just caused her to burst out laughing.

“Heeey, don’t laugh, you’ll injure my self-esteem.”

“I’ve never met another Templar like you,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Of course not! You have any idea how much effort it takes to get this hair to look like it does?”

“Hmm, I was not referring to the hair…actually when it comes to looks you remind me a great deal of Cullen. Who’d probably be the nicest Templar I knew in the entire Circle, were he to actually talk a bit more.”

“Seems I’ll need to work on something else then. Hmm. Well I’ll try to think of something while we travel; long road ahead of us! A few days until we reach Ostagar.”

 

 


	11. Kelch Accidit

Lady Trevelyan sat in one of the cushioned arm-chairs that were arrayed around a small table near the fireplace in the chambers she shared with her husband. She was dressed in a simple yet stylish everyday gown – one of the few nobles in the Free Marches that did not care for the latest trends in Orlais. But none of that mattered to her at this point.

The fair-haired lady sat there, her hands clutching a piece of parchment that had row upon row of fine official-looking writing filling it. But her thoughts were no longer concerned with the letter itself. Instead, she was distraught at what the contents told her.

_Dear Lord and Lady Trevelyan,_

_It is with great sorrow that we must inform you that the Rite of Tranquility has had to be performed on your daughter, Lady Samantha Augustine Trevelyan, while under the care of the Ostwick Circle of Magi._

_On the return trip from her last visit to your residence, she was set upon by a maleficar, who killed four of our finest knights before he was stopped. Samantha’s life was saved only thanks to the swift action of one of the Templar Lieutenants and the First Enchanter himself. Unfortunately the trauma caused by such a horrifying experience and influence of the maleficar poses too great a threat when considering that Samantha had great magical potential. Rather than allowing her to be a target for the demons of the Fade we deemed it necessary to sever her connection to it, thus rendering her Tranquil._

_The Rite was administered on the 6th day of Drakon, 30 Dragon_

_With Regret,_

_Ser Travis, Knight-Commander of the Templar Forces of Ostwick_

It had been read and re-read, again and again, until the tear-stained letter was eventually dropped onto the carpet as Lady Trevelyan could no longer seem to bear the weight of the message, its truth finally hitting home. Curling up in the chair she sobbed quietly to herself, mourning the loss of her youngest child.

~o~

_“In the land where demons lie,_

_And the home of minds that die,_

_Oh she will now let it go,_

_Forfeit to the lyrium glow._

_This but be a finite state,_

_For soon she will once more elate._

_Modest temper, bold in deed_

_A leader will look to her in need_

_When the legends of the sky_

_Fall to Thedas from on high._

_See the panes that do reflect,_

_For her a homeway will detect."_

The soft words echoed around the chamber, far louder than they were being uttered. Chills travelled down hardened warriors’ backs as the girl stood there, dressed only in a filthy tunic. She did not resist as others had always had. She simply followed any directive that had been given to her by the Templars, and that only frightened them more.

They were in the Harrowing Chamber of the Ostwick Circle. It was very much like the one in the Circle of Ferelden, with one difference: instead of being high atop a tower, it was deep below the ground. There were stories that it had once been part of the Deep Roads, before the Dwarven empires fell to the Darkspawn and all entrances and passageways to the chamber had been sealed.

Now there were a dozen Templars stationed around the walls, two more flanked the red-haired girl wherever she went; the last two people in the room were the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander.

Before the girl was a basin of lyrium, much like the one used for the Harrowing. But instead of a mage using it themselves, a Templar would apply it, using a brand that had its end also made out of the magical substance.

Knight-Commander Travis took the brand by its handle, and removed it from the lyrium. He slowly walked up the Samantha, and as he approached, one of the Templars escorting her went behind her and held her head so that she could not move it and so her hair would stay out of the way.

Travis used a gauntleted finger to brush aside the last stray strands, holding the brand aloft. Then he slowly brought it down and gently, yet firmly pressed it against the girl’s forehead. It was an action that demanded there be the sizzle of burning flesh, but there was none. Instead the brand glowed briefly and faded – or that was what should have happened. Instead of fading the brand grew brighter and brighter. It started emitting a whistling noise, akin to the moving of a wet finger across the rim of a wineglass, only much louder.

The Knight-Commander tried to pull his arm away, the brand, but they would not move. The Templars stationed around the chamber tried to block out the growing noise – pulling off their helmets and pressing their fingers into their ears. But even that was not effective as the sound grew and grew. Soon they were writhing on the ground, the sound seemingly transmitting itself into other senses as hearing was overwhelmed.

Eventually, the First Enchanter pushed himself at Travis from where he was on the floor. He knocked hard against the paralysed commander and both fell. The brand was dropped, clattering to the ground with a steely noise. As soon as Travis had been knocked aside the sound had stopped.

Samantha still stood there, in the centre of the room, though opposed to the listless look of before, now her eyes were wide open, as if surprised, her mouth ajar. Upon her forehead there was the sigil of the Chantry, a wavy sun. But unlike other Tranquil, who had only received a scar-like mark, this one was glowing bright blue, the same colour as the magical mineral that had been used on her. Her normally emerald eyes too were flickering with lyrium-coloured flames as irises.

The two leaders slowly got up from where they had crashed to the ground together. Other Templars in the room were also staggering to their feet, groaning. Then the glow faded from Samantha’s eyes and brow, and as if the lyrium had been a string suspending her, the small form collapsed to the ground.

~o~

Elisa dumped her pack at the foot of one of the seemingly unclaimed cots in the Grey Warden pavilion. They had seen the Cousland pavilion during their trip through the camp, but the wound was still too fresh for them to willingly go near it. Fergus had already arrived a few days earlier and was currently out patrolling the Wilds. Until he returned neither of the twins saw the need to force the issue.

The young noble collapsed on the simple bed, groaning as all her limbs finally relaxed. It was almost an intoxicating sensation after days of trudging through the countryside. Erik also swung the pack off his back, but instead of dropping it onto the floor he placed it on the cot next to Elisa’s. There he undid the straps and pulled out the pieces of armour he had stripped to make the traveling easier. He then proceeded to undo the buckles of the pieces he was already wearing and arranged them all on his own cot so he could inspect them.

After ensuring that all parts were accounted for, he retrieved a sealed container along with a rag and set to cleaning and polishing his gear. Sections that needed to have repairs done on them he put to the side after having processed them, so he could take them to a smith later. Finally he too slumped down on his cot, cradling his head in his hands. Duncan had said that they should take the day to recover from the journey. They had already met with the king and reported the loss of their home to the treachery of Arl Howe. The regent had come to meet them personally while they were still nearing the camp. The successor to Maric Theirin seemed to be a very carefree and enthusiastic person, if one were to consider his role as sovereign.

Elisa had nodded off while Erik cleaned his armour and he had settled for simply emptying his mind after he had completed that. So that was the state they were found in when two people whooshed into the tent. The one was a dwarf who wore his dark hair braided into dreadlocks and tied behind his head; surprisingly he did not have a much of a beard to speak of, instead having only a thick stubble. The other person was an elf; she had a very lean build and wore her – also dark - hair tied back as well, though not braided. Both of them wore royal blue and white tabards with a chest piece that had two gryphons facing towards a chalice enamelled onto it – the insignia of the Grey Wardens. Neither of them wore any additional armour aside from a mail hauberk underneath the tabard.

Erik managed to lift his head and look at the two as they entered. They, seemingly having had purpose upon entering, also stopped. Eventually the dwarf stepped forward stretching out his hand, “Faren Brosca, formerly of Orzammar.” He then pointed over his shoulder with his other hand, “and this meek thing is Kallian Tabris.”

The elf punched the dwarf in the shoulder as Erik struggled to his feet to meet the greeting. After exchanging a solid handshake though he fell back onto the cot. “I’m Erik Cousland and that lump on the other cot is my sister Elisa.”

As if picking up on her name being mentioned Elisa mumbled in her sleep, “No you.” This only brought a smile to Erik’s weary face.

“So you must be the sods that Duncan dragged in, eh?” Faren asked, clearly interested in the soon-to-be new additions.

“You could say that.”

“Mate, every recruit here was dragged in after having gone through some form of hell. You’re probably just the same an’ll fit right in.” He looked at the elf over his shoulder and back to Erik. “Well I s’pose it was a pleasure to meet you n’all but we’re sorta on an assignment so we’d better get to it.” Erik only nodded and the dwarf and elf moved past him, deeper into the tent.

After a short while they came back out bearing identical satchels that were dyed a dark grey and moved out of the pavilion.  Just before exiting the tent though, Faren stopped, still holding open the door-flap. “Oh and if you run into a painted elf called Theron, don’t mind what he says much. Half of it is insults, the rest is just stupid.” He dropped the flap and the tent grew dim once more.

~o~

“Ser, you should just see this for yourself.”

Alastair and Celestine had noticed the sudden commotion at the barricade when their approach was noticed. “Ooh, I wonder if they finally implemented that welcome-cheese-tasting station I suggested.”

Celestine looked at him, thin brow raised. “Cheese-tasting?”

“Yes, don’t you think it’s a wonderful idea?!”

“Hmm, not sure; didn’t get much exposure to cheese at the Circle. It was more of a jam place.”

Celestine smiled at the horrified look on the Grey Warden’s face. “No…cheese? You my lady, are one deprived woman!”

They were now only a short distance from the barricade and despite the soldiers obviously having recognised him they still hadn’t opened the way. Instead, they were just gawking at them, well, at Celestine in particular.

Slightly annoyed at the lack of attention he was getting, Alastair waved his hands in front of him. “Now, now boys. You should know by now that staring at a lady is rude.”

That was when it was Alastair’s jaw’s turn to drop, because as soon as he finished the sentence the low-hanging boughs of one of the nearby trees were pushed aside and Celestine emerged. Or he could have sworn that it was Celestine, had she not actually been standing next to him.

Celestine's eyes grew wide as she saw the other woman; it was almost like looking into a mirror. Then small differences became more obvious; the other woman’s face was less round and had a sharper look to it, her eyes were a more sapphire blue and her lips more pursed. She also wore her hair different: short, it having a scruffy-yet-spunky look, sticking up at odd yet seemingly natural angles - where Celestine wore her hair in a very simple collar length style, the only truly characteristic feature being a braid on her left, which she sometimes fidgeted with when nervous. The most striking difference, though, had to be the blood-red mark that ran across the other woman’s nose. It looked as if someone had dabbed a small brush in blood or war-paint and pulled it across her face.

Alastair elbowed Celestine in the ribs gently, as if trying to get her attention. “Why didn’t you tell me there were two of _you_ ,” he muttered in an aside.

“Because there are not,” the other woman responded; her voice had an arrogant edge to it, as if she knew that whatever she said was the best thing that could be said when it was said.

“Well then what is _this?!_ ” Alastair said, gesturing at the woman and Celestine with both arms.

“This,” the woman started, walking up to Celestine, “is my cousin.”

She was now inspecting the former Circle mage, taking in the robes, the pack, the features. “Mother told me about you. Her cousin Revka…all her children mages, all taken by the Templars.” The woman’s tone seemed sad as she said this, as if she were discussing someone dying.

“I…I’m sorry…I don’t know any of my family. I sometimes have difficulty even remembering my parents.” Celestine stumbled through the apology, not knowing what to say, what to think, in the face of this other woman; a sudden link to the world outside the Circle materialising before her.

The other woman smiled sadly. “There is no need to apologise; the fault is that of the Chantry, not you.”

There was a short pause where Celestine just seemed lost, her mind struggling to come with terms to things. “Well, I suppose I should introduce myself,” the other woman said, grinning now, “Sorana Hawke, Sergeant of the Ferelden Auxiliary.”

Finally a spark seemed to wake in Celestine. “Celestine Amell, former mage of the Circle of Magi, soon-to-be Grey Warden.”

“Amell, eh?” Sorana said, her grin only seeming to grow. “Guess they didn’t think your Da’s name was pretty enough for you. Or perhaps your parents never actually tied the knot; scandalous!”

But then Sorana looked at Alastair, and then back to her cousin. “And Grey Warden? My, my, that could be either prestigious or…not. But we have enough darkspawn around that need killing so I guess another fireball or two wouldn’t hurt. Did you know we only have seven mages here? _Seven!_ The Chantry is mad if they think we can defeat a horde with all its emissaries when we have so few to counter them.”

“That was why I initially travelled to the Circle,” Alastair said, butting in. “Celestine seemed to have gotten herself into a bit of a spot and the First Enchanter mentioned she was a special case so I decided to invoke the Rite. Cost me brownie points though, no extra mages.”

“We should catch up some time when I'm off duty and you don't happen to have any Warden-ey stuff happening,” Hawke mused. “Say what.”

“What.”

“-I'll pass by the Warden tent tomorrow morning and see if we can organise something.” Sorana bonked Alastair on the head without losing a beat when he interjected.

“Oww! I’ll have you know that the king happens to like Grey Wardens a lot!” he said, rubbing his head.

“I know,” Hawke replied, sidling up to the Warden who tensed up; bringing her lips to his ear she whispered the end of the sentence, “ _your majesty_.”

She stepped back and wrapped an arm around Celestine’s shoulders, observing how pale Alastair had gotten. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe. Just look after my little cousin and we’re all good.”

“Little?” Celestine asked sharply, not having paid attention while Alastair and Sorana had continued.

“Well, yes. I would guess you’re about the same age as my siblings - which means I get to tell you what to do!”

Hawke laughed at the expression on Celestine's face, who was trying to look unhappy with the idea, but was too amused by it at the same time. “Don’t worry, the Grey Wardens have their own little hierarchy and don’t actually do much together with us army unless it’s one of the large-scale battles.”

“How long have you been here?” Celestine asked, impressed by how much Sorana knew of the situation.

“Joined up when the auxiliaries were moving through Lothering a month or so ago. Been here ever since; I was a sword-for-hire before that, only way I knew to feed the family. So I’m familiar with sifting through the scuttlebutt.”

Sorana then stepped away from Celestine and addressed the two, “Well I shouldn’t be keeping you on your feet all this time. It looks like you’ve come quite the distance. Best you rest up before anything exciting happens.” Hawke turned to go back to her seat but, before entering the boughs swung around one last time, calling: “Oh and the Warden-Commander returned earlier today with some nobs in tow. You might want to go see him, cheese-boy.” With that she was gone.

The two soldiers that they had first seen manning the barricade seemed to snap out of a trance and jumped to open the way. Alastair, while a bit indignant about what the woman had called him, was eager to see Duncan again. So the two set off into the camp at a brisk pace, as if meeting Celestine 's relative had recharged their reserves.

The former mage was suffused with a joy she had never felt before. There was someone out here who actually cared for her, someone that had remembered her and given her significance - someone that wanted to be associated with her. Suddenly all the years of loneliness and isolation at the Circle seemed to have been worth it, that the Harrowing and Expelling had been worth it. That walking all that damn road had been worth it!

The former Templar, on the other hand, was happy for his companion. He had grown to like the girl during their trip from the Tower and he himself knew the isolation of not having anyone who cared about you very well. Then Duncan had appeared and accepted him. He was so eager to go to his superior and the only father-figure that he ever had that he almost completely forgot that somehow, the strange woman had known who he was.

~o~

Sorana was sitting in her habitual place again, legs stretched and folded before her and hands steepled and pressed against her lips as she contemplated the earlier events. The girl had been sweet. A pity that she’d had to spend all her life in the Circle. But when Hawke had wrapped her arm around her she had sensed a fire - a fire that would need attention at some point. But she knew that the Warden with her had once been training to become a Templar. The Chantry tried to exploit him for it at every opportunity, and she had seen how he looked at her. A Templar who loved his charge, that was exactly what Celestine would need in days to come - just as Sorana had had her father. That Alastair was of royal blood had surprised Sorana somewhat. She had heard some rumours that he might have been the bastard of Arl Eamon, and picked up on the likeness between him and Cailin, but it had been his reaction that had proved it in the end. No doubt Celestine Amell’s life would become very, very interesting.

 

 


	12. Conatum Kelch

Donovan looked around nervously as he walked through the dark corridors of the Circle. He had been there his whole life, but had never been asked to travel this deep into its bowels, and that only for a message!

The architecture this low was taking on a very dwarven style, evidence that it was closer to the Deep Roads than anywhere else. Finally he reached his destination: a doorway with two statues standing on either side as if guarding it. Only, these statues seemed to be weeping; in the dim lighting the whole scene was extremely eerie.

Swallowing loudly, he tried to straighten his robes a bit and after a short pause, marched up to the door and rapped his knuckles on it three times. He waited ten seconds, then twenty; almost half a minute had passed before there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the door slowly creaked open.

Finally the room and its occupant were revealed. Standing before Donovan was the First Enchanter, his expression slightly distant. “Is there something you want, boy?” the old man said. He would have come across as cold had Donovan been able to convince himself that the Enchanter was even aware that he was standing there.

“Yes, First Enchanter. We have received a missive from Cumberland. Supposedly it has to do with a potential Blight in the South, Ferelden.”

The old man seemed to finally arrive in the present as his eyes focused on Rory. “ A Blight? Mmm, a Blight means darkspawn, lots of darkspawn. Nothing good can come of that.”

“Sirrah, I was only asked to deliver this letter. It may have more information on the matter.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose it will.” The elderly mage turned around and motioned to someone Donovan had not yet seen; he had not thought that there would be anyone else in the room. “Samantha dear, will you please take this missive and read it out for me?”

A pale girl with freckles and striking red hair emerged from the shadows of the chamber. Her expression was blank, her green eyes dead. “Yes, First Enchanter.”Her voice was as lifeless as her face.

“And after you’re done with that could you please read me the 3rd Chapter of Magister Remus’ Compilation of the Spirits? I was sure I read something there that could make my research easier.”

“As you say, First Enchanter.”

Donovan shuddered; he still could not stand the Tranquil, severed from the Fade as they were they no longer seemed human. Having run his errand, he turned and left the place as fast as he could. There was something about being this far below the ground in the Circle that put him on edge -- a crawling at the back of his mind.

He was glad he had passed his Harrowing. Seeing how the girl had become an aide for the man’s dying eyesight frightened him. Some sense of him was also jealous though. To have the complete and utter trust of the First Enchanter like that, to research and test the most advanced magics alongside him. Such an opportunity was wasted upon a Tranquil, who would never appreciate the wealth of knowledge that they were exposed to. But that was probably for the best. Stories of apprentices that aspired to surpass their masters often ended in tragedy.

~o~

“This is the crappiest job I’ve ever been given,” Elisa whined after they had just killed a pack of rabid wolves. “I mean killing stuff is fun and everything, but _blood?_ That’s just gross.”

“Sister,” Erik responded as he wiped his sword clean on one of the animals’ pelts. “I’ve seen you covered in gore from head to toe. How is this any different?”

“Well…these are _darkspawn_ , you know, creepy and evil. Plus getting splattered in the stuff is different from surgically extracting it.” She made a gagging face after finishing her explanation.

Daveth, another new recruit, piped up, “At least we’re not on the receiving end.”

“Amen to that,” Ser Jory agreed, a massive slab of a man that had also been recruited.

“Aw this is not that bad,” Alistair commented, “I doubt any of you have had to clean out stables in Redcliffe.”

Elisa waved off what the senior Warden had said. “Come on Tina, you must have had something to add - any icky mage stuff?”

Celestine, who had been content listening to the banter, crossed her arms in thought. “Never really got into alchemy. I wasn’t allowed near the more volatile reagents. But there was this one time I helped clean out a spider infestation in the Circle store room.”

“Spiders?” Daveth asked chuckling.

“Yes, they were as big as Mabari,” she responded, smiling sweetly as Daveth suddenly got several shades paler.

“It took me days to wash the stench of ichor from my hair.”

Elisa laughed, a clear joyous sound in stark contrast to the progressively murkier marsh that swallowed up the Korkari Wilds.

“You’re alright by me Tina.”

Erik looked around where they were now walking. “Speaking of stenches….”

The group looked at what he had been referring to; ahead of them where the solid ground started to give way to water they could spot bodies lying among the reeds. Blood had seeped in and stained the ground dark in large patches.

“Maker, what happened?” Ser Jory asked, hefting his massive greatsword.

Elisa watched him, her eyes sad as she recalled another who had wielded a similar weapon not too long ago.

“Our prey happened,” she said, tone sombre.

Daveth looked around nervously. “There are tales of witches and barbarians that live in the Wilds too.”

Erik shook his head sharply. “No, the wildlings will have fled by now. They know better than to remain in the path of a Blight. And witches, well, I would hardly be able to tell you anything about those now, but I doubt that any victims of theirs would look so…cut? Whatever killed these people used edged weapons and bows.”

His assessment was true; the remains were either human pincushions or corpses savaged by jagged blades. They moved among the bodies looking for clues to their demise. It looked as if it had been a caravan of missionaries, come to spread the Chant among the Chasind.

“Poor bastards. I wonder why nobody has reported this yet,” Alistair mused.

“Because,” Elisa answered, “the ones who would have reported anything got done in too.”

She pointed ahead. A short distance from the corpses they were examining, another set of bodies was strewn across the ground; these were soldiers though and looked as if it had happened recently.

“Spirits!” She exclaimed. “One of them is still alive.”

The group rushed forward and Alistair pulled some bandages from a pack he carried, wrapping the man’s wound tightly. He mumbled something about being able to return to the camp on his own, then staggered off in the direction they had come from.

Ser Jory looked around, a hint of panic in his eyes. “A whole platoon taken out and I don’t see any but their corpses. Going out here was madness.”

“Don’t worry, I can sense the darkspawn, all Grey Wardens can,” Alistair said, placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on the giant man’s shoulder.

“All that that means is that we’ll see our death coming,” Daveth remarked snidely.

“Now, now,” Erik said motioning that they all calm down, “No one will be dying here today. I’ve already had my fill of that over the past month.”

“He’s right!” Elisa exclaimed as she pushed herself up on Erik’s shoulders so she could look ahead. “Never fear, when Alistair’s near!”

Erik buried his face in his palm. “Sister, please. We’re supposed to be taking this marginally seriously.”

Celestine had sidled up to Ser Jory and elbowed him in the ribs conspiratorially, “You said something about madness? I think we’re full on up.”

The giant laughed nervously. Alistair, who had overheard her, grinned at her in a manner that would only back up her statement. Daveth was too preoccupied watching Erik and Elisa’s antics to have overheard the comment.

Suddenly the laughter faded from Alistair’s face and he drew his sword. “Darkspawn.”

Elisa seemed to vanish from where she had been holding herself up on her brother’s shoulders, whose shield was raised and sword drawn before Alistair had even finished uttering the word. Celestine gripped her staff in both hands as Ser Jory took up his blade again. Daveth unslung his bow and nocked an arrow.

Celestine took in a sharp breath as cold hands that had somehow circled around her took hers in their own. “Relax,” Elisa whispered into her ear, “my brother and Alistair will hold them at bay; Daveth will worry about any of their archers. You and Ser Jory will just take them out as the opportunity presents itself.”

Celestine nodded sharply, a cold sweat forming on the back of her neck. “And you?” she asked shakily.

“I’ll have some fun,” the Cousland answered quietly, a wicked grin forming on her lips.

Then the darkspawn were upon them. They burst from the reeds and bushes, jumped out from behind trees or just charged at them from atop a hill where a tree that had gibbets hanging from its branches stood.

As Elisa had predicted, Alistair and Erik met the first ones; Erik slammed the edge of his shield into the face of the one nearest to him, while Alistair impaled another on his sword. One had already fallen, with two feathered shafts sticking from its throat. Ser Jory cleaved off the head of a fourth who was trying to sneak past the other two men and managed to lodge the blade in the darkspawn next to it.

Celestine looked around, trying to locate Elisa again who had vanished from her side. She spotted her as the twin reached out of a thick bunch of reeds and grabbed one of the darkspawn archers from behind, running a long blade across its throat as she pulled back with the other hand. The mage looked around, trying to find a way to assist and not injure any of her new-found friends.

She eventually spotted a very large darkspawn standing on the hill who was calling out guttural roars, seemingly directing the others. Seeing that no-one else was near the creature, the Amell girl summoned together her power, a sudden calm enveloping her as an orb of fire enveloped her right hand while her staff remained clasped in the left.

Celestine flung the arm forward, propelling the missile towards the creature. It streaked through the air, leaving a blazing trail as it travelled towards its target. The fireball exploded upon impact with the alpha, scorching a large cone around it, catching one of the archers in the blast – both creatures screamed horribly as the scent of burning darkspawn filled the air, an acrid sickening thing.

Seeing the fate of their leader, the others screeched in defiance and renewed their assault, but without even the little tactical manoeuvring that the leader had enforced, the darkspawn attack quickly fell to shambles as the Grey Warden recruits mopped them up. The last one was about to turn and flee when Elisa appeared next to it, thrusting one of her daggers through its throat, sending blackish blood spurting as she retracted it.

“See, my good Ser? As easy as a tavern wench,” Elisa remarked teasingly to the towering knight.

“I’ll say,” Erik commented. “Their stench is more lethal than their methods.”

“And Tina, that was _awesome!_ ” Elisa exclaimed, bouncing up and down.

“Yeah,” affirmed Alistair. “Just let me check if I still have eyebrows.” He gingerly tested his brow with his gauntleted hand.

Celestine and Daveth went to the bodies that had not been scorched and extracted the blood into the vials. As soon as they had finished with that, the group delved deeper into the Wilds. Duncan had charged them with finding an ancient Warden outpost that held treaties which would compel certain factions to aid during a Blight, in addition to getting the blood. While the blood seemed to be an initiation of sorts, they were far more comfortable with the objective of finding the outpost; it seemed to have more purpose.

Darkspawn and blighted animals attacked them on numerous occasions, but the group proved to be far more than up to the challenge. Seemingly the rumours about Grey Wardens were true. Even only as recruits they were the best of the best.

“You know, I wonder why there are all these sunken ruins everywhere,” Elisa piped up after they had dispatched yet another attempted ambush. “Everyone says that they’re from the old Tevinter Imperium, but there must have been a lot more people alive back then if they had enough to populate even this place so extensively to build so widespread.”

“Or they just realised how lousy a place this was after the Imperium was chased out and all left,” Erik muttered.

“Well true, I’m still thinking if I should risk jumping into that water to wash off all this darkspawn…stuff.”

“There’s more green than water there,” Alistair said, nodding his head towards the pools that seemed to swallow the land.

“Green?” Celestine asked, smiling that innocent smile of hers.

“Well what else should I call it?” the Warden asked, flustered.

“Algae? Slime? Goo? Sludge? Mud?”

“I don’t have a wordy word qualification from the Circle, alright?! Have pity upon the miserable bastard.”

“Ooh, a bastard,” Elisa cooed, “The girls mother used to force me to associate with would love…” her voice suddenly hitched as she stepped into a memory landmine, “…loved.”

Erik took his sword in the hand that also bore his shield and wrapped his free arm around her. The others looked on in slight sympathy and confusion, not entirely sure what had happened. Erik whispered something to his sister and squeezed her, then let her go. She brushed a tear that had escaped from her cheek and hefted her daggers again.

“What are you all gawking for? Let’s go!”

The group, a bit dazed at this sudden change in demeanour, just lurched into action, following her. Alistair pulled Erik to the back of the group and asked him quietly, “What was all that about? Will your sister have problems with my lineage?”

The Cousland kept his eyes locked onto his sister’s back as he responded, voice stony, “No, nothing so petty…we’re alone.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “Arl Howe betrayed our family, killed our friends and parents and slaughtered all who lived in Highever.”

Celestine stifled a gasp as she overheard the response. She saw the look of pity upon Alistair’s face as well, but the Warden did not say anything. He merely set his jaw and nodded.

“Stop!”

The group froze, then slowly looked at who had spoken so sharply: Celestine. She had taken her staff into both hands again. “There is…magic, ahead. I can feel the Fade pulling at something.”

At the mention of the spiritual realm, all readied their weapons once more. They might not know what to expect when it came to such matters, but in the event that it was something bad – which would most likely be the case, them being in the place they were – they would be prepared.

Ahead a rickety wooden bridge had been erected over one of the pools that broke up the land, on the other side stood more of the ruined pillars. What made this part of the land different from the others was that there were statues here, but they had been defiled by the darkspawn with filth and all kinds of hideous items strapped to the once-beautiful stone figures.

The group carefully advanced over the bridge, when Daveth cried out, “There!”

He released an arrow and it buried itself in the body of stocky darkspawn that gurgled and fell to the ground.

“Ambush!…Again,” Elisa called out and crouched down, readying herself for a potential enemy charge. It proved to be a wise move as three Darkspawn emerged running from the pillars. Alistair and Erik moved to stand slightly behind the other Cousland and brought their shields to bear - one flying the colours of Highever, the other those of the Wardens.

Alistair flinched as something impacted with his shield; Erik looked at what it had hit it. A green caustic substance was slowly eating through the wood. Elisa also jerked in surprise as a blue bolt of energy suddenly dissipated just in front of her face.

“Emissary!” Alistair called out.

Elisa looked to her side where Celestine was standing, her hands shimmering with arcane light and her eyes glowing blue. Her mouth was curved into a snarl as she shifted into a steadying stance. Hands twirled and the staff spun around, its tip blurring into a glowing ring next to the young mage. Then without warning she stopped the swing and brought up the staff and slammed its butt down into the ground.

There was a cracking sound as the soggy soil around the impact didn’t swallow the staff, but split as a trail of flame burst forward from it. The Emissary that had now shown itself on the other side of the bridge howled as the ground beneath its feet burst into flames and sent it smoking into the air. It crashed down a few meters from its initial position, unmoving.

As the three charging darkspawn were cut down, the group all turned to Celestine with wary eyes. Her hands and staff were still glowing and her eyes had not yet returned to normal. Elisa, who had not moved all that time, sheathed her daggers and cleared her throat. Straightening up she reached out and offered her hand towards the mage.

Celestine blinked several times and her eyes returned to their normal hue. She looked at the outstretched hand dazed, then at Elisa’s sincere face, then back at the hand. Eventually she clasped it.

The Cousland twin grinned. “Thanks.”

“It was nothing,” the mage mumbled.

“’Nothing my beautiful arse!” Elisa exclaimed, “that thing would have taken off my head had it not been for you.”

“Was that the Fade thing you mentioned earlier?” Daveth asked nervously.

Celestine wondered whether he was referring to her, or the darkspawn, but eventually decided not to worry about it. It seemed that these people had enough problems of their own without her adding to them. “No, whatever is weakening the Veil is still here somewhere.”

“Something to look forward to then,” Ser Jory muttered, his teeth gritted. All of this magic was putting him on edge.

~o~

Sorana Hawke marched back into the army camp with Lond and Garrod in tow, their shift at the road over. Braziers and fires were already burning as twilight stole over the countryside, the flickering flames darkening shadows and outlining features. The secret apostate waved off her escort as they headed deeper into the camp, saying that they should grab something to eat while there was still some left.

She eventually neared the place where her tent was located when she stumbled across a familiar figure. “Carver!” she greeted her brother, far more enthusiastically than he felt by the look on his face.

“What is it now, Sister?” Somehow he managed to make it sound like an insult.

“You won’t guess who I ran into today,” she said with a sly look.

“The king of Ferelden? Oh wait, that was a month ago,” he responded in a bitter tone. “No, wait. The Lord High Marshal, oh no, that was last week - maybe Lord Cousland? Or was that yesterday?”

She smacked him upside the head as she neared him. “No, silly. Cousin Celestine, the kid of mother’s cousin… the one whose children all got taken by the Circle?”

“Oh great, more mages…just what we need.”

“Don’t be such a prick. She seems nice. A bit quiet maybe, but nice.” Rana grinned then. “Should have seen the men. They couldn’t tell us apart.”

“You mean I have to deal _two_ annoying relatives now?” Carver asked incredulously.

“Not quite; remember she’s quiet. But I’ll see what I can do to amend that.”

Hawke senior then stalked off, deciding that she should probably also find something to chew on. But before she got out of hearing range she turned to shout back, “She’s also a Grey Warden!”

Carver cursed under his breath, something about family, mages and women before returning to clean his sword, which he had been busy with before his sister had interrupted him.

 

 


	13. Kelch Administra

“It’s here.”

The party stopped as soon as Celestine uttered the words. They had now seen action for themselves and it suddenly seemed that much more real to them that she was actually a mage, and not just a girl that dressed up strangely.

They had travelled up a ridge, following a path among the Tevinter ruin in the general direction Duncan had indicated the old Warden post would be. It was already late noon and the group tried to get through the Wilds as fast as they could – none of them relished the thought of spending the night in that place.

Eventually, the path had allowed them to split off from the ruins but still travel up the rest of the ridge. Erik had suggested that they take that route since it seemed that the darkspawn favoured the ruins themselves. This way they would hopefully avoid several encounters with the monsters.

They were near the edge of the ridge when Celestine spoke up, looking over it they could see where they had already travelled that day, albeit the view mostly obscured by fog. The mage slowly stepped forward, drawn to a pile of ash on the ground that the group had not noticed before.

“It feels… familiar.”

“Uhm, that’s a good thing, right?” Alistair chuckled nervously. “I specialise in killing darkspawn, demons…well let’s just say I never got that far in my training.”

Erik looked at Elisa and nodded. They knew the feeling as well. No amount of alcohol would erase the memories of that first day of command from the twins’ minds. The sensation crawling across your back as hair prickled, the deadening of scent and the fading of ambient noises. It was all too familiar.

“I’m afraid it’s not,” Celestine said, inspecting a pinch of the dusty ash, which seemed to have withstood ages of lying atop a hill, neither wind, sun nor rain having disturbed it.

“This feeling….” Celestine shook herself and stepped away from the ashes, dropping those she had been inspecting. As soon as they landed and disturbed the ones that were already lying there, the pile erupted.

“Maker,” Ser Jory breathed out as the ash seemed to solidify and take shape.

“Demon!” Elisa cried out, her blades materializing in her hands.

Alistair got into a ready stance. “I knew I should have taken notes on those silencing techniques.”

The creature was now almost fully formed. It looked unlike any living creature could have, with a writhing, twisted body that still seemed to only materialize a foot from the ground. Arms almost as long as a man and as thick as wooden struts protruded from a bulge that had to be its torso and a hood-like appendage stuck out from it, a single glowing eye leering at the party.

“ _Celestine Amell, we meet again._ ” The voice was hollow and rang inside their heads, completely bypassing hearing.

“Uhm, Tina – a demon knows your name,” Alistair said aloud. “Somehow that doesn’t seem like a good thing to me.”

Celestine looked at the creature eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. “You…you were there in the Fade during my Harrowing.”

“ _Aah… you remember. I was surprised that… mmm, Veeshaz did not get its way with you…it normally always does._ ”

“Only a fool would fall for the pandering that pride demon used!” the mage said scathingly. She had now recovered from the shock of seeing the creature materialize before her and was carefully readying her grip on her staff.

“ _Mmmh… I suppose that means I get all of you to myself, hmmm…. In the physical realm too; you and your friends shall make such a delicious meal._ ”

“Nobody touches my friends.” Unbidden flames sprang to life, licking from Celestine’s staff as she spoke, and sparks slowly began to form on her hands as well, eyes glowing with inner fire.

“ _My, my, mmm…so possessive. Shouldn’t you at least want to try and share? I can offer you the…_ ”

The creature was cut off as two tiny points of silver appeared from its torso, then it simply dissipated into a cloud of ash once more, losing all form as the traces of the fade vanished. The rotting scent of the Wilds rushed to fill in the space and the chirping of bugs and frogs in the background returned.

“Gah, that smell always gets you after it’s been gone,” Erik muttered, seemingly unperturbed by what had just happened.

The two silver points turned out to be the tips of Elisa’s daggers, which she had driven up to their hilt into the demon’s torso. “Maker, but they love to talk if you don’t open up swinging.”

The flames had vanished from Celestine, who now wore an expression of surprise and confusion.

Ser Jory and Daveth looked like they were trying to recover from what had probably been utter terror. Seemingly the stories spread by the Chant about demons inspired far more terror than those that history taught of darkspawn. Thankfully, no-one commented on this.

Alistair chuckled nervously. “I don’t suppose you have any other demons from your past we might run into.”

Celestine looked at him, her expression having turned thoughtful. “Well…I never actually killed that Pride demon that tested me during my Harrowing. It did say that we would meet again, so I suppose we could expect it to crop up at some point.”

Elisa swore as she heard that. “Pride demons are a bitch to kill.”

“Yes,” Celestine said, nodding. “I do get the impression that this is not the first encounter that the two of you have had with demons. I myself had never encountered them before my Harrowing.” A vision of flames everywhere and burning corpses filled her mind, screams dying as the inferno took them. Celestine shook her head. Not now! She had trained for this all her life!

Erik laughed mirthlessly. “We have.”

The Cousland twins got enquiring looks from the other party members, but Erik did not respond. Neither did Elisa at first. Eventually she broke the silence. “The Battle of Red Tide.”

Ser Jory whistled slowly. “Maker, you two were there? You couldn’t have been older than your sixteenth nameday back then. We heard stories about that back at Redcliffe – how the Cousland's Commander rallied the auxiliaries and saved the Teyrn’s forces from the necromancer.”

“Hold on…” Alistair started, but stopped himself when he saw the silent signal from Celestine, who was looking at him meaningfully with a finger pressed to her lips. Some things were best shared only when those sharing them felt the need to. He nodded in response, understanding.

Thankfully neither Daveth nor Jory noticed this exchange. Alistair cleared his throat to break the suddenly oppressive silence. “Well we can’t sit about in the Wilds all day…unless one of you packed for a picnic.”

“Ooh a picnic!” Elisa said, jumping up and clapping her hands, the sombre mood from a second ago seemingly forgotten. But then she pulled a face. “I’d prefer not to have to eat in a place that smells like ass though.”

“Not to mention darkspawn surprises,” Daveth said.

“Yeah, I wish we could have taken Alfonse. He would sniff them out a mile away!” Nothing seemed to dampen Elisa’s newfound excitement.

“Greeat, now I feel like I’m substituting for a dog.” Alistair sighed.

“Why you would want to inflict the scent of darkspawn upon my faithful hound is beyond me,” Erik said, shaking his head.

“Good point. They do smell a great deal worse than this place does on its own.”

The group had started moving up the ridge again, ordeal with the demon almost forgotten. They ran into more darkspawn along the way, but dispatched them quickly with the system they were slowly getting used to, of Alistair and Erik taking the brunt of the attacks while the others picked off the monsters. Ser Jory ensured that none of the creatures made it to Daveth and Celestine while they launched their ranged attacks and Elisa dealt with the enemy on her own, vanishing and reappearing all over battlefields. There had been several occasions already where Celestine apologised profusely for catching the other woman in one of her spells, but the Cousland merely waved her off, citing that it was her own fault for not looking before leaping – or at least announcing to her allies where she would be leaping.

Finally they reached the top of the ridge, where a large circular ruin dominated the area. The darkspawn seemed to have been the thickest here since crossing the makeshift bridge, but they rid themselves of of the monsters quickly.

“You know, I’m beginning to wonder what’s so special about Grey Wardens,” Elisa mused., “We seem to be dealing with these buggers just fine.”

“There are…other things, that make Wardens necessary,” Alistair mumbled.

“Ooh, yes this whole secret joining thingy,” the Cousland continued. “I wish you people would tell us more!”

“And,” Celestine interjected, “I don’t think any of us are what you would call ‘run of the mill’ individuals.”

She pointed at Ser Jory. “Our good knight was recruited after winning the Grand Melee at a tourney, not that I know anything of such things, but it sounds impressive.” She pointed at Daveth, “You got into enough trouble with the law to make it to the noose, only to be snatched from it.” She pointed at Alistair, “Templar material, good enough to fight demons, good enough to fight darkspawn. I knew some of the Templars from the Circle; some of them were frighteningly skilled. Elisa and Erik, well…Erik fights as a knight would and Elisa is a damn massacring machine.” Finally she pointed to herself, “And me, well…walking time bomb.”

Alistair looked at her for a moment and then spoke up, “What’s a bomb?”

Daveth nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. “I think it’s how Qunari do fire magic without…magic. Heard that the dwarves have been trying to get it working as well.”

“Oooh, a metaphor.”

The party then split up among the ruins, scouring them for any traces of the documents Duncan mentioned. After the better part of an hour of searching Daveth finally called out, “Hey, I think I got something here!”

They all assembled where the roguish man was rifling among some ancient scrolls and crates; most of the parchment seemed to have rotted away and whatever had been written upon them had long since faded.

“Damn, if the treatises are still here they’re pretty much useless now,” Erik muttered.

“Looking for something?”

The whole party turned around as one, weapons drawn upon hearing the strange feminine voice from behind them.

Ser Jory gasped, voicing everyone’s thoughts, “A Witch of the Wilds!”

 

 


	14. Semper Sciens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring artwork by yours truly

“A Witch of the Wilds, you say? Those tales are still told to frighten your children?” the woman asked mockingly as she slowly descended a ruined flight of stairs.

She was scantily garbed, with only a thin leather harness and maroon shawl covering her breasts. A durable-looking kilt made of belts covered the lower half of her body and she wore boots that ended higher than the rim of the kilt.

Her raven-coloured hair was tied up into a bun and held in place using hairpins that the Warden recruits would swear were made of bone. She had golden eyes that were tastefully accented by a deep purple eye-shadow, the same colour her lips were painted.

“What are you doing here? This tower is Grey Warden territory,” Alistair called out, his tone challenging and seemingly unperturbed by how revealing the woman’s clothes were.

“Grey Wardens? I see nothing but ruins and wilderness,” the unidentified woman exclaimed haughtily, “And the wilds are _mine_.” The emphasis she placed on the last word taunted those assembled to dispute her claim.

“We should leave,” Alistair muttered in an aside to those in his charge. “Chances are she’s a maleficar.”

“Ooh, and you believe I shall come swooping down upon you?!” the woman theatrically mocked.

“Yeeees,” Alistair responded, drawing the word out as he narrowed his eyes, warily following her movements. “Swooping is _bad_.”

The supposed witch made a dismissing gesture, “I am not interested in the long forgotten bones that lie buried here. Instead, my curiosity was piqued by a small group that disturbed ashes that have lain still for ages and cloven through a sizable arm of the darkspawn scouts.”

She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and was subjecting the group to a sharp analytical gaze, her eyes drinking in information. “These menfolk seem to have rendered their judgement upon me. But what do you women think? Surely you must be more intuitive.”

Elisa seemed to have gotten bored of the tension that was heavy in the air, flicking a throwing knife around in her one hand and watching the dancing blade distractedly. “I like your getup,” was all she said, shrugging. “Maybe you can teach Circle-girl here that she needn’t always wear robes.”

Celestine grinned at what Elisa said. Personally she couldn’t agree more, but she had yet to get her hands upon more practical clothing. She then took her turn to address the stranger. “My name is Celestine  Amell, and I think it’s nice to meet something in these wilds that hasn’t tried yet to decapitate, defenestrate, or disembowel me.”

The woman snorted. “Manners _and_ practicality! Something one rarely sees out here in the Wilds.” She did a slight bow, indicating herself. “You may call me Morrigan.”

Erik took this opportunity to step forward, having sheathed his sword. he bowed as one would expect when going to a ball in Val Royeaux. “My lady, we are here by request of the Warden-Commander to retrieve some treatises. Would you be able to assist us in this matter?”

This display of courtesy seemed to surprise Morrigan, who replied promptly, “You will not find your documents here.”

“Did you take them?” Alistair asked suspiciously, “You must have! You’re some sort of.. .sneaky-witch-thief!”

One could hear the roll of her eyes as she responded, “Sneaky-witch-thief, am I? I was not the one that took them -- ‘twas my _mother_.”

“Oh.” Elisa and Celestine shared a look that conveyed how much they were trying not to laugh as Alistair answered the witch, tone flat.

“If you wish, I can take you to her. She may even be inclined to return them to you,” Morrigan said as she turned back and headed up the stairs.

The motley group quickly gathered themselves up and followed her as she disappeared into the undergrowth that surrounded the ruin. Her pale, exposed shoulders caused more than one member of the party to wonder how they had not spotted her earlier among the dark and dank surroundings.

“Should we trust her?” Daveth asked in a low tone. “She may be leading us into a trap.”

“Yes,” Alistair agreed, nodding, “but it seems Erik and the ladies have curried us some favour…I really should get some lessons on how not to stick your foot in your mouth.”

“-for fools,” Morrigan called over her shoulder.

The former templar swore, none of them having realised how sharp the witch’s hearing was. Celestine was looking at the witch studiously. Finally curiosity got the better of her. “You never denied being a witch; does that mean you’re an apostate?”

“My, my, so astute; despite the sheep’s clothing you are proving to be quite the amiable acquaintance.”

“You still haven’t answered,” Elisa pointed out, ducking underneath a branch that threatened to swat her in the face as Ser Jory pressed through the growth ahead of her.

“Indeed. Perhaps that is because I wish to avoid the mire of your Chantry’s teachings.”

“So you are an apostate?” Daveth asked, following the conversation closely.

“If you wish to label me as one of the Divines would have it, as one who does not conform to the teachings of your Circle, then yes. If you judge by the definition of the word, then no - I have never followed the teachings of the Chantry and thus cannot be defined as an apostate.”

“You make it so complicated…” Alistair complained.

“”Tis not my problem what the limits of your comprehension are, but do you truly believe that people are _meant_ to be easily placed into a box?” she answered, throwing the question out dismissively.

Daveth chuckled,  nervous., “If put like that I have known a fair number of ‘apostates’.”

“Perhaps; I sometimes question how much your supposed ‘Maker’ is actually involved in the handling of mages. Most of the laws imposed seem to be gross misinterpretations of your Chant.”

“You seem to have a substantial grasp of the Chant for someone who claims not to adhere to it,” Elisa pointed out.

“’Tis as you say. My mother thought it best I know of these things before venturing beyond the Wilds. Perhaps she was right, perhaps not.”

The group continued along the path Morrigan led them on for a short while in silence, until it was broken by Celestine, who had a thoughtful expression on her face. “I, for one, would find your views on the Circle and its teachings enlightening. I have never had the opportunity to hear what those who grew up outside of it believe.”

Morrigan gave the Amell an appraising look over her shoulder. “Again you prove not to be the sheep one would take you to be.”

“I did not say that I agree with your views, but yes, if I have ever been a sheep, it’s been the black one.”

The witch did not respond, remaining facing forward as she guided the party on paths that they would never have found without her native knowledge.

  
Art by: [yours truly](http://e153n.deviantart.com/art/Elisa-the-Warden-Rogue-542024109)

~o~

The shrubbery finally gave way to an increasingly widening path, which eventually opened up into a clearing where a rickety-looking house stood at the edge of a large submerged section of the bog. Standing in front of the house was an elderly woman wearing a plain dress, but her features were far too sharp and calculating to be those of a normal woman of such advanced years.

Morrigan walked up to her nonchalantly, greeting as she approached. “Mother, I bring visitors.”

“I have eyes girl, I can see that.” Her tone was as condescending as Morrigan’s own and had another, sharper, undercurrent. She turned to address the newcomers, treating each to a penetrating gaze, “And what brings such august company to visit a poor old woman such as myself?”

“Are you also a Witch of the wilds?” Ser Jory asked challengingly.

“Witch of the Wilds?” the woman asked laughing, “You must have been listening to my dear Morrigan. Oh how she dances under the moon.” The woman laughed again.

“ _Mother_ ,” Morrigan rebuked, clearly annoyed at her mother’s antics, “These _Grey Wardens_ did not come to listen to your tales.”

“Grey Wardens? Then you must have come for the old treatises.” All humour disappeared from the woman’s eyes.

“Yes,” Alistair acknowledged, gesturing to himself and the others, “I am Alistair, these are Daveth and Ser Jory. The two beauties are Elisa and Celestine, then bringing up the rear there we have Erik and we would be grateful for any assistance you can offer us.”

The woman laughed, “So courteous.” But then her mien grew stern once more. “And indeed, this old woman can assist you.”

“Why should we trust her?” Daveth hissed, “She could be a maleficar! They say witches steal men and children from surrounding villages.”

“Bah!” the woman exclaimed. “As if I had nothing better to do.”

“Pardon me, my lady,” Erik addressed, “but you have us at a disadvantage; none of us know what to call you.”

The woman fixed him with a look, face unreadable. “Very well,” she finally said, “since you asked so nicely, you may call me Flemeth.”

“ _The_ Flemeth? From the legends?” Alistair asked incredulously.

“I _said_ we couldn’t trust her,” Daveth said emphatically, his body seemingly itching to flee.

“Ah, more of Morrigan’s tales no doubt,” Flemeth said, laughing again, “She fancies such things.”

At this Morrigan shot Daveth a venomous look. Elisa and Celestine had been watching the whole exchange in silence; finally the Cousland spoke up. “Daveth, drop it. We need those treatises, or would you prefer to report failure at our first task to the Commander?”

The former thief muttered something to himself, but stepped back from the group to exclude himself from the exchange.

“As ever, it is a woman who is the voice of reason,” Flemeth said approvingly, then turned to Celestine to address her. “And what of you?”

“So far, I don’t know what to think.”

“An admission behind which there is more wisdom than in most,” Flemeth stated, then nodded sagely. “Always be Ignorant,” her expression changed to a thoughtful one, “or is it Aware? I can never remember.”

“ _Mother_.” The exasperation coating Morrigan’s statement could have been used to drown a man.

“Yes, you did not come to listen to an old woman prattle,” Flemeth said nodding. “Morrigan, fetch these travellers the treatises; you know where they are.”

Morrigan turned to enter the house, briskly climbing the rickety stairs that led to the entrance and leaving the Wardens alone with the old woman.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why would you help us?” Alistair asked, his eyes narrowing in their characteristic manner.

“Child, the Blight must be ended, or not even someone as powerful as I shall be able to endure. _This_ is only the beginning.”

~o~

“Sergeant!” an authoritative voice called out over the bustle of the camp.

Hawke looked up from where she had been sitting, strapping on her greaves. “Yes, Corporal?”

“You’ve been re-assigned for the coming battle; you’ll be with me and a platoon, defending the Tower of Ishal.” The officer speaking was a woman with flaming ginger hair; her face was set in a stern expression, leaving no room for argument.

“Yes Ser,” Hawke affirmed, bowing her head as she pressed fist against her chest.

The woman nodded at the gesture and handed Rana a rolled up piece of parchment. “Have someone deliver this to the kennels as well. We need the hounds to be prepared.”

Sorana took the paper, inspecting it for any clues to the contents. But it was closed with a wax seal so she pushed it up the sleeve of her gauntlet, stowing away her curiosity with it. “As you say, Sir.”

The woman nodded again, and marched further into the camp. Sorana, looking around, realised that she had nothing more to do for the moment, and decided to visit the Kennels herself.

 

 


	15. Semper Ignarus

“No! You can’t ask me to do this! Haven’t we done enough?!” Ser Jory’s voice was quavering as he nervously stepped back from Duncan. Erik and Elisa watched on in silence as the Warden Commander closed in on the frightened knight – his teeth clenched and knuckles white. Alistair was trying to look away without making it obvious and Celestine was twirling the braid of hair again while chewing her lower lip, every fibre in her body seemed to be screaming for her to run.

_This is suicide! Just look at how Daveth writhed on the floor before becoming so still. They are poisoning you! What makes you think you’ll survive? Skinny thing that you are. All the others are physical powerhouses and even that was not enough to save the thief. This is why the joining is such a secret – they murder people! Run! Get away!_

But despite the internal urgings, the mage didn’t move, her eyes locked on the scene before her.

“I have a wife with child!” Ser Jory pleaded, drawing his sword in desperation.

Those that could see Duncan’s eyes knew that he was disgusted with himself for what he was about to do. “I am sorry,” he said quietly.

Despite his advanced years he moved faster than Celestine's eyes could follow. Letting go of the silver chalice with one hand he drew a dagger and stepped in close to the massive man – too close for him to be able to wield his massive blade. Not pausing, even after seeing the look of shock on Ser Jory’s face, he plunged the dagger deep into his gut. The giant dropped his blade as the fatal wound sapped him of all strength. With a whimper he fell to the ground, dead.

Duncan turned to the others, regret plain on his face, but he did not re-sheath his now blood-coated blade. “The Joining cannot be forfeited.” His tone held no apology.

Elisa nodded sharply and stepped forward. She guided the chalice to her lips and sipped from the vile contents. Unlike Daveth, she did not start choking; instead her eyes rolled back and her knees gave out. Erik reached out to catch his sister, gently guiding her to the floor.

“Elisa Cousland, you are now a Grey Warden,” Duncan intoned before turning to Erik. The other twin nodded and also brought the cup to his lips, drinking from it. His eyes rolled back as his sister’s had, but he did not fall to the floor.

“Erik Cousland, you are now a Grey Warden.”

The Warden-Commander then moved to Celestine. Her every instinct was still screaming for her to run, but at the same time her feet refused to move. Duncan brought the chalice to her lips and she used a shaking hand to tip it.

The toxic contents burned as they spilled over her tongue. She gagged as they reached the back of her throat and swallowed as soon as she could bring herself to. Bile rose up to meet the darkspawn blood, but Celestine forced herself to keep it down even as the world swam before her eyes. Her last thought before everything went black was: _Who set my hand alight?_

~o~

Celestine opened her eyes. Her first thoughts were confused: Where was she? Who was she? Why was she so cold? Then memory trickled back in. She had been together with the other recruits. Images of Daveth choking filled her mind, Duncan gracefully moving in to kill Jory, Elisa’s and Erik’s drinking and then her own. How the vile liquid had burned down her gullet and… _the archdemon!_

Visions of a great black dragon had filled her mind as soon as she had fallen unconscious, hordes of darkspawn marching through a chasm of unimaginable size below it. So the rumours were true…. No, the Grey Wardens were right. This was a Blight. Flemeth’s words rang in the Circle mage’s mind; _“This is just the beginning.”_

Finally she stirred, groaning. Her head was pounding behind her eyes and in the recesses of her mind there was a distinctive crawling sensation.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good.” It took Celestine's mind a moment to recognise the voice – Duncan.

She grabbed onto an arm that was offered and winced as she was hauled up. She started tipping forward, but the one who had helped her up caught her. Celestine kicked herself for being so clumsy as she tried to gather her strength to stand.

“I’m okay, thanks,” she mumbled and the arms let go. She wavered for a moment, but found that she could stand again. Looking back she saw that it had been Alistair who had caught her. He nervously scratched the back of his neck when he noticed her watching him.

Elisa was watching them with a half-smile from where she was sitting on the floor next to her brother. Erik was still standing where he had been after drinking from the chalice with his eye’s whites showing.

“Err, has he been standing like this since…?” Celestine asked, pointing to Erik.

“Yep,” Elisa answered.

“Wow.”

Alistair nodded. “A true bulwark. I think he actually passed out like both of you did, just that his body seems to be trained so well as to keep standing unless he consciously demands it not to.”

As if on cue, the Cousland twin snorted, his eyes snapping forward. “Water,” he croaked, “or anything to drink but that blighted stuff.”

Duncan passed him a bottle and the man took a long draught from it. Wiping lips, he handed it back. “Mmm, not bad. But I don’t think I’ve ever had a drink like that before.”

Duncan smiled knowingly. “Still better than the first.” He returned the bottle to wherever he had pulled it from. “A Warden tradition. We keep a bottle on us and just refill it from whatever we can – the character can vary quite a bit from Warden to Warden depending on where we travel and what is on hand.”

“Maker, Duncan let you drink from his…” Alistair breathed, eyes wide in amazement.

Duncan laughed, “I’ve never seen someone who remained on their feet after drinking from the chalice. This group has been the most…interesting.” His tone turned sombre as he looked to where Daveth and Jory’s bodies were laid, a white and blue checked pennant covering them from sight.

“I’ll say,” Alistair pointing towards his armour. “That’s the last time I try to catch a fainting mage.”

Celestine gasped as she noticed the scorch marks that covered the splint-mail plates across his arms and chest. “Was that me?!”

He nodded, grinning wryly. Elisa laughed. “Yet you didn’t hesitate to catch her not two minutes ago. Smooth.”

He flushed. “That was completely different! I think…hold on, I need to think.”

Elisa laughed again as Celestine watched Alistair with a soft smile.

“Sister, this is hardly the time to make him squirm,” Erik admonished.

“Ah yes, sorry - morbid face mode on.”

“Elisa….”

“Fine,” she dragged the word out in exasperation.

Appropriate mood restored, Alistair nodded and pulled three silver pendants from a pouch. “We call these _Warden’s Promise_. Some of the leftover blood from the Joining is trapped inside the crystal so that we will always remember those who sacrificed themselves to combat the Blight, especially those who died at each of our Joinings.” He handed a pendant to each of the new Wardens and they solemnly accepted them, hanging them from their necks.

“You should all go get some rest,” Duncan advised, “The air is heavy with the promise of blood.”

He turned to Erik. “May I ask that you attend the King’s council with me? In your brother’s stead. We will need the best strategic minds to prepare for what is to come.”

The Cousland twin nodded, following Duncan towards the long table that had been set up in a cathedral-like ruin as the others returned to the Warden’s pavilion - part of them happy that they had endured, part of them mourning the deaths of two men whom they had only met the day prior.

~o~

“So you just slaughtered everyone in the estate?” Celestine asked – eyes wide.

“Pretty much. It was either that or let myself and my friends be raped. Seemed like the best solution then,” Kallian answered nonchalantly, shrugging. The city elf had recounted how she had ended up being recruited by the Wardens – saved from the hangman’s noose very much like Daveth had been. “Besides, they killed my fiancé. Letting people go around doing that as they please would be very bad for my marital status.”

“Hehe, thass me girl,” Faren said, chuckling, and he patted the elf heartily on the shoulder. Luckily she was sitting on one of the cots while he was standing next to her so that he could reach that high.

“What about you, Faren?” Elisa asked, curious. Most of the Wardens were sitting around the large bonfire in front of their tent, maintaining equipment, eating, meditating or just chatting amiably.

“’M a Duster from the shit-poor in Orzammar,” the gruff dwarf began recounting. “Me, my sis ‘n a good mate had this whole plan for getting into the noble district. She was gonna try and get a tyke off the old king’s youngest and wham, immediate lift outta the squalor.” Faren took a swig from a hip-flask that contained some vile-smelling liquid before continuing, “Problem was, we didn have the gold to make her look all nice and pretty. So we worked together with the Carta – bunch o’ no good nug-humping cut-throats. Plan went to hell ‘course; Carta leader was a prick – ended up joining a Proving under a fake name and got stuck in a cell. Fought m’ way out – killed the Carta boss ‘n was picked up by the Wardens afore the city guard could lop m’ miserable ‘ead off.” He took another swig from the flask.

“Well, now I know why you two work so well together,” Alistair commented, “Same story, different place… almost.”

“That’s it, me ‘n my knife-ear.”

“Uh-uh,” Kallian objected, “Me and my doorstop.”

Celestine looked at the two, shaking her head. “You two, partners in crime. Thedas wouldn’t be able to take it.”

“Not our problem,” both elf and dwarf responded in unison.

“Well, the Wardens sure are different from what I expected,” Celestine said as she looked around the fire. “Peasants, murderers, thieves, apostates, freeholders, knights, nobles…” she shook her head, “It’s as if the order is meant to represent every facet of life – everyone is so different.”

“Bah, it’s nothing so romantic,” Faren dismissed, his large hand waving in the air as if to dispel the idea. “Everyone here is the same; they will do whatever it takes to get what they want. Be it right, wrong, corrupt, noble or otherwise,” he grinned, “even our lives are used as bargaining chips.”

“Well, I think both are true,” Kallian stated, her tone making it fact.

Then two figures emerged from the shadows around the fire. The Wardens hailed the return of their commander and Erik moved to sit down beside his sister. He sighed heavily as all those in the group looked to him questioningly. “Alright, alright. I’ll tell you what’ll happen in a bit. Just let me grab something to eat.”


	16. Propositum

Ancient stonework erupted into flames beside Alistair. He cried out as the impact of the darkspawn siege weapon flung him backwards. World spinning around him, he blindly reached out, hoping to catch himself before he went over the edge of the marble-paved bridge.

His gauntleted hands skidded across the weathered stonework before finding purchase; the sudden halt jarred his arms and he groaned. Erik appeared before him with Elisa and Celestine close behind. “Quick, grab onto his other arm,” the Cousland shouted to the women. Without waiting for a response, he took Alistair’s right hand in his own and heaved. Elisa had taken his other arm with Celestine hanging onto her belt, to hold her back and add her own weight.

Alistair flew back onto the bridge despite the bulk of his armour, his companions tumbling over themselves. Another burning missile flew close overhead and they flinched instinctively. They were on their feet again in a moment, the sounds of the battle below conveying the severity of the situation.

Both Erik and Elisa had been on battlefields before, but none compared to this when it came to the sounds that were echoing up from the valley; the screams and war-cries of men mingling with the bellows and cries of the darkspawn, the clash of weapons and armour mixing with the roars of ogres and the barking of war-hounds. Occasionally, magic would lance across places, decimating swathes or warding them. Over it all, the crawling sensation in the back of the new Warden’s minds was now a haunting song that spurned them onwards.

“Come on, we don’t have time to spare!” Elisa’s shrill voice pierced through the clamour from below.

The group rushed across the bridge, dodging explosions, archers and ballista crews. They slowed down as they neared the other side, trying to catch their breath from the mad dash. Finally they stopped, Alistair leaning on his knees as he addressed Erik, “Thanks…that would have been…a terribly boring death.”

The other man chuckled as he straightened up. “Well, I didn’t want to have to deal with these two all on my own.”

Elisa smacked him upside the head as she walked past. “Oh really?”

“Ow! Only proving my point!”

“The only point I am proving is that you should put your helmet back on,” she shot back.

“Yes Mom.”

The quip had come out without a thought, but as he said it his look hardened, as did Elisa’s.

Before anyone else could say anything more, a soldier came running up to them, as out of breath as they had been a moment ago. “Grey Wardens! Thank…the Maker,” he gasped in between gulps of air, “Tower overrun…darkspawn…tunnels.”

“Darkspawn are attacking the tower?” Celestine tried to clarify. The man nodded.

“Well Alistair, there’s the battle you wanted,” Elisa said, grinning as she drew her blades.

“Damn it, we can’t afford to get slowed down too much,” Erik growled, “or we’ll miss the signal.”

Alistair nodded, looking to Celestine to see if she had anything to add. She shrugged. “Fireballs prepped and ready.”

Each of them drew their weapon and they hurried to the tower, using a brisk jog so that they would have energy to spare for the coming battle.

Passing through the defensive palisade that had been erected around the tower, they met their first resistance. A trio of darkspawn was standing over the corpses of some humans, hissing at each other in their guttural language.

The newly minted Wardens fell upon them swiftly; one’s head was separated from its shoulders before it even realised it was under attack. As Elisa moved in, Erik used his shield to bat the blade of the one out of the way and impaled it through its chest using the Cousland family sword. Alistair rammed into the remaining spawn using his shield, and was surprised as he stumbled forward – his target having shattered under the impact, littering the floor with iced giblets.

“Oh gross,” he muttered as he saw how the darkspawn’s blood had frosted in tiny black crystals in the shape of a nova burst across his shield.

Elisa giggled. “Get used to it, Blondie, mages offer the messiest – if quickest - solutions during combat.”

Any further banter was cut short as more darkspawn attacked, alerted to their presence.

“I suppose this is why the expression ‘uphill struggle’ exists,” Erik said as they pushed the darkspawn back up the stairs and beyond the defensive emplacements that had been put up – but rendered useless.

“It’s not fun if it’s easy,” Elisa responded, wearing a feral grin as she wiped darkspawn blood from her cheek, the black substance smudging.

“And this isn’t?” Celestine teased, swinging her staff around to connect with the head of an unfortunate Hurlock, the solid wood staggering it. She let go of the weapon with her right hand and gestured at it. Lightning forked from her extended fingers and sizzled across the body of the beast. Finally it collapsed to the ground, smoking.

“Is that a challenge I hear?” a haughty voice called from an alcove above in the tower.

Alistair looked to where the voice had come from, then to Celestine, “Hang on - doesn’t that sound like…”

He was interrupted by the doors of the tower bursting open and four darkspawn charging out bellowing their war-cries. Before the Wardens could react, a dark form shot out from where the voice had originated, a shining streak blurring through the air after it. The figure landed on the ground behind the charging darkspawn, who started to turn to see what had appeared. The shining object sliced through the lead one, using the momentum of the fall to bisect it. The creature dropped in two. The edge did not remain still; it flowed through the air and cut up into the ribs of the one adjacent to the first. Then the butt of the spear slammed into another as the blade was pulled from the second. The weapon was twirled about as the blade cut deeply into the neck of the one that had been hit. The final darkspawn had finally gathered enough of its wits to retaliate, but the blade was blocked by the spear’s shaft. The wielder kicked the darkspawn in the gut, sending it reeling back. Then using the opportunity to pull the blade from the darkspawn it had been stuck in, it was twirled around once more and thrust into the chest of the one that had been kicked. Five seconds elapsed throughout the entire process.

“…your cousin.”

Standing before them was Sorana, spear held perpendicular to her arm behind her, her feet spread and left hand held out in front of her as if balancing. Seeing that that had been all the darkspawn she straightened up, smirking. “Accepted.”

“Do you have to do everything like there’s something to prove? Maybe it’s just my insignificance,” a young man was saying as he walked out of the door the darkspawn had just come running out of, the sword he was resting on his shoulder large enough to rival what Ser Jory had wielded.

“Oh how is that a way to make an impression, Carver? Look, we have an audience.”

“Your audience, maybe. I’ll just continue living under the yoke of being compared to you.”

Sorana shook her head in exasperation, but when looked up at the now somewhat puzzled Grey Wardens. She was smiling brightly. “Celestine !” The Hawke jumped forward, wrapping her arms around the surprised mage.

“Sorana? …Uhm, nice to see you too?”

“Yes!” Sorana exclaimed, “It’s always nice to see me.” Hawke detached herself from her cousin and stepped back to take in who it was that was actually assembled before her.

“Cheese-guy! You’d better have been keeping my Tina safe,” Rana said sternly, wagging a gauntleted finger at Alistair who struggled to find a response.

“Uh, yeah? I think.”

“Brilliant, and look, it’s the Nobs!” Rana bowed emphatically before Erik and Elisa.

Erik was just watching the Hawke woman’s antics with a raised brow. Elisa on the other hand was grinning, and as soon as Sorana had completed her mocking gesture she returned it, curtsying. “A pleasure to meet you Sirrah. But perhaps introductions can be made én route to the top of the tower? We have yet to light the signal there.”

“Of course, my lady; the Captain is holding back the darkspawn at the entrance to their tunnel with what men are still left.”

The group, with its two new additions moved into the tower, carefully stepping over the corpses that the older Hawke had created.

“So I take it you know each other?” Erik asked the raven-haired woman leading them through the shattered barricades and bodies that littered the floor of the tower.

“Yep, met two days ago,” she responded. “Saw you too when you ‘n the Commander passed by the roadside barricade, but I didn’t come out from my shady spot back then.” Sorana shrugged, “And well, everyone in our battalion heard about Blondie’s cheese-stand suggestion. Men were still crying with laughter two days later.”

“Ah! You’re that voice that told the soldiers to let us pass,” Elisa stated, recalling the encounter.

“Maker, I’ll never live that down,” Alistair groaned, “– but it was a good idea!”

Sorana nodded, “Yes, to both accounts, but I’d have preferred chocolate.”

They made their way through several more chambers, each of them littered with debris and corpses – both of darkspawn and men – until they reached a room that had a stairwell leading to the next floor. Opposite to the stairwell, a hole gaped. Part of the wall and floor of the tower had collapsed into it. A line of men was standing across the gap, shields locked as a wave of darkspawn surged from beneath.

“Hold the line men!” a commanding voice called from the midst of the shield-wall.

The darkspawn charge broke against the shields, not finding a gap in the defence as a pair of archers fired into the mass from atop tables that had hastily been pushed into strategic positions. The Blighted creatures were soon all cut down as the new Wardens aided the defence.

“Sergeant, I thought I told you and your brother to guard the main entrance,” a woman with fiery orange hair addressed Hawke as she approached.

“Don’t worry Captain; these Wardens here killed everything out there. They’re the ones sent to light the signal fire.”

“Ah, finally – the waves are getting increasingly larger and I’m not sure how much longer the ones we barricaded upstairs will remain quiet.”

At the confused glances she was getting from the Wardens, she elaborated. “The bulk of our force was outside the tower when the first darkspawn broke through. They managed to infest the entire building before we were able to lead a decent response.” A deep sadness seemed to grip the captain for a moment, but it was quickly hidden again behind a steely resolve. “I lost a lot of good men here; I hope it’s not in vain.”

Alistair nodded solemnly, “We shall honour their sacrifice, Captain.”

“I’ll have my men remove the barricade. Maker watch over you,” the captain said, nodding to Alistair.

The Wardens checked their equipment as the Hawkes returned to the door and the Captain to her men, knowing that it would likely be a while before they would have the opportunity to do so again.

 

 


	17. Elusus Propositum

Celestine opened her eyes. She closed them just as quickly, scrunching up her face as she tried to block out the offensive light.

“So, finally you wake,” she heard a familiar voice say to her left.

Where was she? she wondered. This could not possibly be the Circle; it was far too warm and there was a strong fragrance of herbs in the air, accompanied by a rich earthy scent. Finally, she forced her eyes open, blinking as they adjusted to the light that was flooding in through a nearby window.

The walls, floor and roof were all made of wood – definitely not the Tower. Then it hit her like a bucket of cold water: _Ostagar_. Why was she not dead? The last thing she recalled was turning to face the entrance to the tower’s top level as darkspawn broke down the door they had closed behind them.

“Your fellows will be pleased to see you on your feet, especially that foolish one. He might finally stop whining.”

Celestine looked to who had spoken; it was the woman they had met the day before: Morrigan. She still wore the same clothes – or lack thereof -and was standing with her arms crossed over her chest as she watched the Circle mage try and make sense of things.

“I suppose by my fellows you mean Alistair, Erik and Elisa?” Celestine asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened?” Celestine was trying to wrap her mind around how she and the other Wardens had ended up so deep in the Korcari Wilds when the night before they had been in the middle of a battle for their life against a massive darkspawn horde.

“Your general abandoned the field. The King, his army and all other Wardens but you lot are dead.” The way Morrigan said it one would have thought her to be reading it from a dusty old tome.

Celestine sat up in the bed she was lying in, frowning as she replayed what the witch had said in her mind. King, army, Wardens, dead. She didn’t do anything for a moment, then she pushed the blanket that was covering her aside and climbed out of the bed. She knew that what Morrigan had said should make her sad, but the meaning of the words seemed strangely detached from her. Cold and rational, her mind noted that she would most likely feel the effects of the statement later, when she’d had time to process it.

Morrigan directed her to a pile of neatly folded clothes – her robes. She nodded her gratitude and pulled the soft fabric over her head, noting with mild annoyance how it caught on the bandages that were wrapped around her torso. Hold on, bandages?

“I don’t seem to be wounded, yet the bandages indicate that I had been.” The statement implied the question, which Morrigan picked up on.

“My mother’s work – she rescued you from the tower and healed you. A day and a half have passed since the battle.”

Celestine nodded. “Thank you.”

A look of surprise flashed across the witch’s face before she quickly hid it. “I did nothing, ‘tis my mother you should thank.”

“Thank you nonetheless,” the mage said, smiling. “But now that I am dressed I should probably see the others.”

Morrigan nodded and turned around, opening the door of the hut and leading Celestine outside.

“Tina! You’re okay!” Elisa squealed as she cannoned into her fellow Grey Warden.

“Oof…hi Elisa,” the mage managed.

“See, she is well, just as I promised,” Flemeth said, addressing Alistair.

“Maker….” was all he managed before he too rushed to hug the mage, capturing both her and Elisa in the embrace, that latter of which who quickly detached herself and slipped out. It took a moment for Celestine to realise that the powerful man’s shoulders were shaking, tears running from his eyes. “I thought I’d lost you too…” he managed. “Duncan and all the others….”

Celestine held him, not quite knowing what to do. She herself had never lost anyone close to her. Those closest were all gathered here. But then the younger witch’s words rang through her mind again: _his army. No…Hawke?!_

Then the reality crashed down, as the voice in her mind had predicted. Everything seemed deadened as a great hollowness collapsed her chest. Tears silently ran down her pale cheeks as she held the one who had invited and welcomed her into what had been his closest family and just like her – lost it.

Morrigan stood a small distance from the Wardens, watching the mourning with a look of mild disgust on her face. Erik stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the two’s shoulders. He knew what they felt like; he had undergone a similar experience not more than a week ago. But drawing from that, he knew what it was that needed to be done.

“Now is not the time to mourn. We are the last Wardens and there is a Blight.”

Alistair took a deep breath and turned to look the Cousland in the eye, a flicker of anger in his look. “Duncan was like a father to me,” he stated, jaw clenched and voice steely, “What do you expect us, what...five, to do against an _army?_ ”

Erik returned the gaze, eyes cool and steady. “We do our duty. We honour their sacrifice. We are Grey Wardens – whatever it takes to defeat the Blight.”

“The King is dead,” Alistair spat, “Loghain betrayed us. Was that what you lot schemed at that great big meeting of yours?”

“Alistair…” Celestine started, placing a hand on his arm.

He pulled away. “No! Don’t you get it? We’re alone!”

Flemeth shook her head. “Listen to your friend; a storm approaches. I stand by the words I spoke at our last encounter.”

Celestine’s eyes lit up upon hearing the witch. “That’s it!” she voiced, hopeful.

Alistair looked at her in confusion, not understanding how she could have that tone at a moment like this.

“The last time! We got the treatises. If we use them, we can still raise an army to fight the Blight.”

“Ooo,” Elisa said, a smile appearing on her lips with a wicked gleam in her eye, “Good thinking.”

“Indeed,” Flemeth agreed, “Elves, mages, dwarves…sounds like an army to me.”

Alistair had gotten a hard look in his eye. “Arl Eamon of Redcliffe won’t stand for what Loghain did either.”

“There you go then,” the old woman said matter-of-factly, “Seems you have work to do.”

The Warden regained his composure within seconds. “Well then, no point in moping around.”

“One more thing,” Flemeth interrupted. “Take Morrigan with you.”

“What?!” The young woman’s tone was shocked.

“Don’t argue with me on this matter. These Wardens require all the assistance they can get. You know how important this is.” The older witch looked at the younger meaningfully.

Morrigan sighed heavily, “Fine, Mother. If that is what you want.”

“It is.”

Celestine watched the exchange. “If you don’t wish to come, I don’t think you should. It will be dangerous.”

Morrigan only scoffed at this. “With this Blight, nowhere will remain safe and it is not as if I do not know how to fend for myself. I have lived in these wilds all my life.”

Celestine looked to the other Wardens to see if they had anything to say. Erik made no move, Alistair was giving Morrigan his suspicious look, and Elisa merely shrugged.

“Besides, you will need someone who knows these lands to get you past the darkspawn, to Lothering – the nearest village worthy of the term.”

The group dispersed to prepare for the journey when an enthusiastic bark, shortly followed by another was heard from the underbrush surrounding the house. Erik and Elisa looked up sharply to where the sounds had come from, faces disbelieving.

~o~

Sorana parted the reeds, trying to see through. They were knee-deep in muck, the rancid stench of the stagnant water, rotting plant stuff and other unmentionable things creeping up their nostrils.

“Do you see anything?” her brother hissed from her right.

Her only response was to carefully place a finger over her lips, signalling silence. Gingerly, she picked a leg out of the swamp, ever so slowly, to prevent the characteristic sucking noise such actions often had. Foot freed, she stepped over the reeds she had parted, sinking it back into the bog on the other side as she carefully repeated the action with the other leg. Slowly, she let the reeds slide back to their natural position and moved forward, carefully, to avoid making any noise.

She drew near the edge of the water, where the ground was relatively solid once more. She heard a deep throated chitter, then a hiss. The ‘spawn were still out there, and if the Wardens had been right then they would only grow in number as the days progressed. She drew her spear from the harness that she used to keep it slung on her back when not in use, holding the still blood-stained blade low so as not to give away her position. She motioned over her shoulder that Carver follow, as she silently approached a darkspawn that was standing, watching the path they would no doubt have to use to get out of this Maker-forsaken place.

She had almost reached it when it jerked, attention drawn by something. The creature hissed, turning around. The beast could _smell_ her! Pale white irises locked onto her, the tiny pupils at their centre dilating a fraction. It screeched as it hefted the jagged-edged longsword at its side.

“Carver, now!” the Hawke called, jumping forward in an attempt to salvage the situation. The spear passed through the creature’s throat, its growl turning into a gurgle as black blood flooded its lungs. But the damage had been done. The creature’s cry had alerted the others near them and now Rana and Carver could hear the sounds of beasts from all around them.

“We need to get out of here, to Lothering!” the younger Hawke stated, voice taut.

“Yes, we need to get Mother and Beth, flee to the north. Damn that traitor!” the elder spat. “Fair warning, I’ll no longer hold back while we’re so surrounded.”

Carver merely nodded. He might resent his elder sibling for many things, but he respected her and trusted her above any other.

Two darkspawn burst through the foliage. The first’s head was torn off by a missile of compressed rocks, the other exploded as lightning struck it out of the clear sky. Two more ‘spawn appeared on the other side of the siblings, both of them getting encased in ice as soon as they started charging. One fell, shattering under its own weight - the other met the same fate at the impact of a massive blade.

“Carver, get out of here. I’ll be right by you!” Sorana commanded.

The dark-haired man opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the look in her eyes snapped it shut again. Hefting his blade, he ran down the road. Darkspawn swarmed around where Sorana had been, the woman disappearing under the mass of writhing bodies.

Carver paused to take one look back, just in time to see a crack open up in the heavens. Eerie green light shone through the fissure. But then the light was blocked out by a flare. Fire poured from the crack hurtling to the earth, forming into orbs as it drew closer to the ground. When the flames impacted, they exploded, bathing the area in a sea of fire. The guttural calls of the darkspawn turned to screeches and moans as they were incinerated.

A hand clasped Carver’s shoulder, causing him to spin around in surprise, only to look into the smirking face of his sister.

“Come now, you don’t want to get turned into a pillar of salt, do you?” she teased as she started running down the road they had just opened for themselves.

“Maker, I hate it when you do that,” he muttered, hurrying to follow after her regardless.


	18. Epicinium Proditio

Whatever the roads were that Morrigan led them on, they seemed to take them towards their destination by a much shorter route than the one from Ostagar would have. But that could also have been due to their benumbed state of mind. Each Warden had felt the presence of the darkspawn the night of the battle, the scratching at the back of their minds finally turning into a glorious crescendo of unearthly music as the horde drew closer and closer. Each Warden knew that this was a Blight, each one of them suddenly realised how alone they now were that all the others had died before the darkspawn onslaught.

They did not speak as they trekked through the Wilds, the loudest noises made by the party being the occasional scuffle of a foot or noise made by one of the two Mabari as they dove into the thick undergrowth in pursuit of some small creature.

Alfonse had arrived shortly before they set out with another Mabari in tow; the new addition had immediately taken a liking to Celestine and followed closely behind the mage wherever she went. Unsure of how to handle the massive hound’s affections, she had settled for simply letting it do as it pleased for now – although it seemed that Alfonse was already taking up the reigns of mentorship if the barks and snuffs that the canines exchanged were anything to go by.

Alistair was insistent that they call the new addition ‘Barkspawn’. Morrigan had rolled her eyes at the suggestion, even as Celestine tried to hide a smile. Eventually she had decided that since the Mabari was female Triss would do; Alistair stubbornly continued to refer to the hound with the name he had come up with. It was a small something for them to laugh about to try and break through the overwhelming shroud of death that seemed to hang over the group, and even Morrigan found it difficult to fault the forced humour. Nobody noticed how Elisa’s fingers twitched every time Alistair used the nickname, or how Erik grit his teeth.

After half a day of wandering through the wilderness, the old Tevinter Imperial Highway appeared before them. Her task done, Morrigan assumed a spot at the back of the group as Elisa and Celestine took the lead, the Mabari trotting next to them panting contentedly.

“Road’s deserted,” the Amell stated, looking along the highway ahead of them and glancing behind them. “You’d think there would be more people fleeing Ostagar.”

“I doubt there were many – if any - survivors that were not part of the army that Loghain commanded,” Elisa commented. “If you recall, Captain and your cousin were fighting darkspawn behind our lines. If they were overwhelmed like we were….” The Cousland took a deep breath, her voice monotone, lacking any emotion. “A flanking tactic like that would have prevented anyone still in the camp from escaping as well, unless they delved into the Wilds themselves – which would be treacherous to say the least, considering the ‘spawn already controlled them by the time we arrived.”

“Oh.” Celestine’s response was so soft that Elisa was not sure whether or not the mage had said anything at all.

The group eventually reached a segment of road where abandoned wagons and baggage were strewn across the path or lay halfway pushed off, listing to the side. The two women continued along the path towards the abandoned wares, a sense of unease growing in Celestine’s gut. She barely suppressed a start when Elisa suddenly reached out to stop her, pressing a finger against her lips. The noble motioned for the two Mabari to follow her, then indicated that the remaining party continue onward. Celestine looked to Erik as the woman disappeared among the shadows thrown by the trees surrounding the road. He merely jerked his head in a manner that indicated she should go on, but he loosed his sword in its sheath. Alistair, picking up on this, did the same.

The mage nodded; using her staff as a walking stick she continued down the road, striding purposefully, not betraying a hint of the fear that was creeping up her spine. They eventually drew within sight of the village, and Celestine thought that whatever precautions Elisa had taken had most likely been unnecessary when a man appeared in front of her from behind one of the wagons. She stepped back sharply, almost onto Erik’s foot.

“Well well, whadda we ‘ave ‘ere,” the man said as another appeared atop a wagon behind him, and three more revealed themselves from the side of the road, or from among the debris littering the highway itself. “More refs comen’ to flee them darkspawn.”

“Uh, boss, these dun look like the others,” one of the men standing behind the lead one observed.

“You should listen to your friend,” Erik said evenly over Celestine’s shoulder.

The one who was most likely the leader of the men blocking the road shook his head, “Alls who uses the king’s road must pay the toll, thas why s’called a toll.”

“You should let us pass, friend; we’re Grey Wardens,” Alistair suggested over Celestine’s other shoulder.

At this, the leader of what were undoubtedly bandits simply laughed, “’ear that lads? Thissun says ‘es a Grey Warden. Likes the one that killed the king, we’ll get the pay of our life if’n we hand these to the Regent.”

“Fools, do as these men say before it costs you more than you are willing to pay,” Morrigan called from the back of the group.

“Lissen ‘ere lady, yous’ll be the only ones payin’. Lookit this one ‘ere in the front, all a shakin ardy.”

Celestine was indeed shivering, but contrary to what the bandits believed it was not fear. Deep in her gut a fire sprang to life and flared along her legs and arms, burning in her muscles. The ache to do something quickly and violently pushed at the mage’s restraint. She breathed in deeply and opened her eyes which she had closed as the sensation began, idly looking at the floor at the bandit leader’s feet. She blinked lazily as she lifted her eyes to the man in front of her, her mouth spreading into a vicious grin.

She looked the bandit directly in the eye. “You should have let us pass…” she said, voice low.

“Maker’s balls, the bitch’s possessed!” the man behind the leader shouted, voice suddenly high-pitched as instinctive fear gripped him. The leader drew his sword, “Quick, kill ‘em! We’ll still get the bounty ev’n if they’s dead.”

Celestine was still standing upright holding her staff in her right hand; she stretched out the left, open palm facing outward. She suppressed the urge to laugh as the energy that had been building up within her was unleashed, mana becoming fire inches away from her hand. The flames burst forward in a tight cone, immolating anything in its path. The bandits yelled in panic, all their bravado spent. The furthest away one’s shout of alarm was silenced in a gurgle as two Mabari closed in, one leaping for the throat, the other taking out a leg. The eyes of the bandit atop the wagon went wide in surprise as a hand grabbed his ankle and pulled him down sharply. No sound came from behind the wagon where he fell.

A heavy hand fell on Celestine’s shoulder; she spun around to meet the new threat, only to meet two pairs of concerned eyes.

“That’s enough Tina,” Erik said. “They’re gone.”

It was a rather mild way to describe how the bandits had departed from this world, considering that two were now mostly ash; one was horribly mauled and another seemed to have disappeared entirely – a smirking Elisa emerging from the woods, wiping down one of her daggers.

Celestine merely nodded, shuddering suddenly and hugging herself. Elisa shot her a confused look since she had not witnessed the young mage’s reaction to the bandits; Morrigan on the other hand was giving her an appraising look. Alistair and Erik pulled what was left of the corpses off the road for scavengers to deal with – mindful that it would most likely be darkspawn.

The small group set out again, noises from the village ahead growing louder as they approached: the wail of young children, the arguing of frantic refugees and noises of various animals that would accompany the humans in their flight of the Blight.

~o~

Samantha Trevelyan stood to the side of the door to the room in which the First Enchanter did his research; her mind automatically catalogued everything she experienced. Ever since she had been made Tranquil, her mind absorbed information unlike ever before, as if all the trappings of emotions prevented the clear receiving and processing of the knowledge presented to her on a daily basis.

The new state of mind allowed her to view all past experiences with clarity; she could analyse her life down to the smallest detail and not have it coloured by emotion. There were three memories she returned to frequently: the night she discovered her magic, the night she was attacked by the abomination, and the night she was branded. These had to be the most pivotal moments in her yet-brief existence and on every occasion emotion had clouded her decisions – or reactions.

She understood the reasoning behind why such emotions would cause her to act like she did, but could no longer relate. First anger, anger at her mother, then fear…fear. A constant companion of hers since that first night, finally culminating in a breaking point the night the abomination attacked, something had happened then that rendered her catatonic. But there had been something else, something that prevented her from thinking as clearly as she did now, something that had been burned out during the rite. Her forays into those memories were met with resistance - something prevented her from observing more than what her senses experienced, something was preventing her from viewing her own mind.

Had she had any emotions to feel with, this might have worried her, but as it was she noted it as a curiosity and moved on to the next notable memories, linking them to key events to allow for easier recall. She started working through her time as a Tranquil, a period far simpler to catalogue with the structured regimen to everything she did – there was absolutely no deviation, no irregularity.

“Trevelyan, come here will you?” The First Enchanter’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

She looked to where the man had drawn runic circles and glyphs on the floor, surrounded by various instruments whose function seemed to be for measuring or channelling, judging by their positions. He was indicating that she stand on the chalk-marked floor at the centre of all the symbols. Unperturbed by the implications of the lines, she moved as directed.

“Now, I am aware that the most common questions asked of Tranquil are those of how you feel about something, or what your preference is,” the old man stated as he started adjusting the instruments. “I have taken care to isolate you from such drivel; I have theorised that perhaps a Tranquil may latch onto whatever aspect is first presented to them, or perhaps made to be the easier one to choose; considering that you have no judgement to help you decide, your environment does that for you…path of least resistance for want of a better term.”

He moved over to his desk and scribbled something down on a scrap of parchment before returning to the instruments. “But now, what if a Tranquil was to assume a trait that will eventually contradict their state of Tranquillity?” The leader of the Circle of Ostwick smiled as he said this and looked Samantha directly in the eye. “Tell me Trevelyan, what do the words: ‘Modest in temper, bold in deed’ mean to you?”

 

 


	19. Mundus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to Lothering

The old Imperial highway broke off, becoming a dirt road with deep wagon furrows where tepid water pooled. This road, in turn, led past several ramshackle shacks, hastily erected tents, and a small field that may once have been used for farming judging by the wooden fence around it, but was now overgrown by weeds, until it finally reached a small bridge. Beyond the bridge was Lothering, wooden houses with peaked roofs lining the path that led from the bridge. Just on the other side of the bridge was a small field where several wagons and their draft animals stood.

As the group passed through the squalor that was the refugee camp they got mixed reactions. Some looked to them, nervous and suspicious, others with slight disgust and more than one with something else completely.

“Oh joy, more fools staring,” Morrigan muttered.

“Well, you do have a rather unique sense of fashion,” Elisa pointed out.

“As if your attire is any more modest, noble.”

“Fair point.”

Celestine was glad of her robes for once. Although they garnered her several looks of fear and suspicion, at least she had fewer lecherous ones directed at her compared to the other women in their party.

They reached the bridge, where a pair of Templars stopped them. “Halt strangers, this town is under Chantry protection.”

“Chantry? I’ve never heard of Templars enforcing the law.” Celestine observed.

“The Arl and his men abandoned these lands,” the helmeted man responded, “and there has been bandit activity on the roads. I’m afraid we can’t let you enter the village, armed as you are.”

The companions looked at one another, trying to decide on a course; finally Erik stepped forward. “There were highwaymen on the road a short way from here; we took care of them. Permanently.” His voice hardened on the last word.

Had they been able to see the Templar’s eyes they would no doubt have been widened. “You did? Oh, well I suppose the Knight-Captain will want to hear of that. Keep your weapons tied into their sheaths and you won’t have any trouble from us.”

Heading into the town, the group followed the road until it split off over another bridge, the other path leading towards a large building that was no doubt the Chantry, judging by the Chanter’s board set up just outside its outer wall. They stopped in front of the board, Erik heading over to have a closer look at it. One could always take stock of a community’s situation depending on their problems.

“I think Alistair, one of the twins and I should head to the Chantry. Meet with the Knight-Captain, maybe the Revered Mother,” Celestine mused.

“Oh, and why those specifically?” Elisa asked.

“Morrigan is an apostate, and the Templars at the bridge let us pass relatively unchallenged; I’d rather not tempt fate again,” the former Circle mage reasoned. “Alistair was raised by the Chantry and trained as a Templar. I’m sure he’ll be able to offer insight on any dealings. Having a noble along can never hurt if extra pull is needed, and I’ve been dealing with Templars all my life. Or well, been stared at by them. If anyone can weather Templar scrutiny, it’s me.” She smiled sweetly at the last bit.

“’Tis a reasonable course of action; the interior of a Chantry would hardly interest me,” Morrigan agreed.

At that point Erik joined up with them again. “I’ll go with Morrigan; even if she can take care of herself, I’d rather not risk any altercations because some fool got too drunk and got ideas.

Morrigan bristled slightly, but did not argue. Celestine nodded, seeing that what Erik said made sense; they would not want to risk drawing more attention, considering what they had heard from the bandits.

So the group split up, Celestine, Alistair and Elisa heading towards the Chantry and Erik and Morrigan heading towards where several men had set up their stalls in the hope that they might be able to acquire some supplies for the journey to come.

The trio announced themselves to the Knight-Captain, who, after learning that they were Grey Wardens, asked them to speak with the Revered Mother. It was true; a bounty had been set on their heads by Loghain and they had been framed for the losses at Ostagar. There were several interruptions on their way to the Revered Mother, first a raving Chasind that had been inciting the crowds, who somehow seemed to pick up on the taint in the Wardens, and then there was a knight from Redcliffe who Alistair recognised. The news they gleaned from him was not good.

“Grey Wardens? I have heard these claims against your order,” the Revered Mother said, “but I’ll not act on them. We have enough trouble as it is.”

As the group headed back out of the building, Elisa was still trying to process what had just happened. “So, we get told to report to all these people in charge, just for them to wave us off and say ‘we don’t care’ in far too many words?”

“Eeyup,” Alistair confirmed. “Welcome to Chantry bureaucracy.”

Celestine just grinned as they walked out the doors, spotted Erik and Morrigan and waved them over. Once they were close enough she jerked her head in the direction of the stone building behind them. “Dealt with the admin, let’s see if we can find somewhere to rest for the night. We ran into a man who recognised Alistair from Redcliffe, seems all is not well there; we can journey there the day after tomorrow.”

Erik nodded. “Morrigan is quite the haggler; we’re almost stocked up. I picked up that there’s an inn on the other side of the bridge, because the vendors were complaining about some soldiers that were being difficult.”

Morrigan made a sound of annoyance. “The fools knew not the worth of their own wares.”

The party made their way to the other side of the town. Elisa was looking at something with a sad expression; Celestine was about to ask what was troubling her when she spotted the source of the noble’s distress herself. A small child was standing near the bridge they had just traversed, running up to random people and asking them something, only to be ignored or roughly rebuked, but the child did not relent.

Celestine brushed Elisa’s arm to draw her attention, and nodded towards the child, indicating that the noble approach it. The Cousland smiled tightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and nodded sharply as she hurried towards the small boy.

“What was that?” Alastair asked as he picked up on the silent exchange.

“Hopefully a small balm for whatever those shadows behind her eyes are,” Celestine responded, watching as Elisa lifted the boy onto her hip, his small face explaining something animatedly as the noble-cum-Warden headed back to the other side of the bridge. Erik gave a gruff look of thanks at the mage.

They found the inn easily enough, it being the only building that drew crowds. They left the two mabari at the door and headed inside, knowing it was probably too crowded for the powerful dogs to easily pass between people. Erik cleared a way to the bar, making space through the throng for the women to follow, Alistair bringing up the rear. Morrigan was visibly uncomfortable in the close quarters.

At the bar, Erik rapped his knuckles on the counter, his gauntlets loud against the aged wood. “Barkeep! A word!”

The sweaty man behind the counter quickly finished filling up the tankard he’d been busy with, shooting a nervous look at Erik as he spilled slightly. “’ll be righ’ there master.”

He used a dirty cloth to smear the mess more evenly before heading over to where Erik and the others were. “’Ow may hi assis’? An’ before you ask, no. There’s no room. We’re full up, has you can see.”

“Hmm, is there anywhere else we can spend the night? There are ladies with us and I rather they not have to spend every night outside.”

“Well, hunless these _ladies_ are hoffering a par’icular service in hexchange, hi doub’ hanyone will be making space.”

“Ah, I see; no thank you. We’ll find some other accommodations.” Erik almost managed to hide the disgust in his tone at what the man had implied.

He was about to wave the group away from the bar when a voice from behind interrupted, “Oi, you! I know you! Yeah, you were with them Grey Wardens – that one with the cheese. Betrayed the king you did.”

Alistair’s eyebrows shot up in surprise just as Erik and Celestine’s eyes narrowed. Morrigan merely looked bored. The Cousland turned around to look at who had addressed them, suddenly wishing there was more space and that his sword was not peace-tied.

There were five of them – men-at-arms that looked to have imbibed far too much. The one at their head called out again. “Loghain said to wait here in case any of you showed up. Authorized by the Regent to take you in for treason or your life is forfeit.”

The crowded room had grown silent. The space between the two parties grew as people slipped out in apprehension of the growing tension. Erik looked at the men, face devoid of emotion. “Betrayed at Highever. Betrayed at Ostagar. And now accused of treason.” He spoke quietly, yet still his voice carried through the whole room. There were yet more sounds of feet as more tried to escape the room or back against the walls. The ground floor of the inn was now almost completely open, with the two opposing parties on either side. “Are you sure you wish to pursue this?”

“So you’re saying you’ll not come quietly?”

“Everyone, calm down. Is there no peaceful way to resolve this? Can we not come to an agreement?” This was said by a woman wearing chantry robes, her voice lilting with a slight Orlesian accent.

“Step aside Sister, this does not concern you or the Chantry. The Regent wants either their heads or shackled.”

Celestine put a hand on Erik’s shoulder as if holding him back with her soft touch as she stepped past him. “Not going to happen; there is a Blight afoot and only Grey Wardens can stop it. You either let us go, or…I recommend you let us go.”

“Not gonna happen, girl!” This the man said as he drew his sword and charged, his friends close behind him.

There was a surprised gurgle as two of them fell. Erik narrowly dodged the sword of the leader, but as it passed by him he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled as he lifted his knee, crushing his nose. Celestine went down as one of the men swung a sword at her and she tried to block it with her arm, both of them going down in a crowd of people who screamed as they scattered. Seeing this, Alistair shouted out and barrelled into the other man, knocking his sword aside as he lifted him off the floor and threw him down again; there was a horrible snapping sound as the man’s head connected with the ground again at a completely wrong angle. The remaining one just screamed and fled the room, a smug look on Morrigan’s face as she watched him leave. Erik pulled his knee out of the leader’s face and smashed the man’s head against the bar, it making another crunching sound as the broken bones in his face were crushed even further.

“Tina!” Alistair almost cried as he ran towards where the mage and her aggressor had gone down. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw an icicle sticking clean through the man’s chest. Slowly he leaned over and rolled the body off Celestine, dreading what he would find.

The expression on his face changed almost instantly when he saw the former Circle mage smiling up at him, somewhat embarrassed. Her attacker’s sword was stuck between stones that wrapped around her arm in what was almost a second skin. The man’s weight had pressed the blade against her enough so that it had formed a long thin cut from her brow, over her eye and across her left cheek, but she was otherwise unharmed.

“Thank the Maker, you’re okay.” Alistair sent up the prayer, no one but her hearing it.

~o~

“Blimey, someone’s been busy,” Hawke commented as they walked past several congealing pools of blood, scattering crows as they neared the site of what seemed to have been a small massacre. She took in where a large cone of soot scorched the ground, ending in what she assumed were the very charred remains of…someone.

“Maker…did the darkspawn somehow get ahead of us?” Carver asked, eyeing the scene.

“Naw, ‘spawn wouldn’t have dragged the bodies off the road.” She walked over to the scorch mark, rubbing a finger across it as she crouched.

Sorana sniffed her finger, testing the carbon substance, expression thoughtful. Then she stuck it in her mouth. Her face twisted into the expression of someone who had tasted something exceedingly vile, and spat a few times, trying to remove the trace of it from her tongue. “Yep, definitely her.”

Carver looked at his older sister strangely. “Does sticking it in your mouth actually help?”

“Absolutely! Best way to trace identity is by taste, like comparing yours and Beth’s cooking. I can almost always tell whose it was.”

“Uh, okay.” The young man was unsure whether what his sister had said was a slight, or simply an observation, since even a delinquent chicken would be able to tell the twins’ cooking apart, considering that he always burnt everything.

Hawke hefted her spear again and started off down the highway again. “Well, come on brother! Or we’ll miss a family visit!”

Carver grunted, slightly annoyed. But then, when was there a time his sister did not grate on him with her flippancy? He shifted his sword’s sheath and followed after Sorana, secretly glad to be home, despite the dire setting.


	20. Conspectu

“Well don’t just stand there gawking, help me up!”

Alistair’s shock almost managed to pass as feigned. “Why yes, of course my lady; that was remiss of me.”

He leaned down and hesitated a moment, looking at Celestine’s rock-encased arm before he shook his head slightly and gripped her, hauling her to her feet. The rock was strangely warm under his hands and crumbled off as soon as he let go. The pair turned back to the room to see Erik warily eyeing the patrons that were still in the building. To their surprise, the Chantry Sister that had tried to involve herself earlier was between the corpses of the first two men that had gone down, her habit having a large blood stain down the right of her chest. It seemed not to be hers,however, as it was neither growing larger, nor was she displaying the symptoms of someone who had lost that much blood. Celestine noted that the woman’s sleeves also bore slight blood splatters as the redhead seemed to be kneeling, praying penitently.

Morrigan was leaning against the bar, inspecting the contents of a tumbler, the angling down of the corner of her lips the only indicator of her disgust.

The Chantry Sister straightened up, beaming at the companions. “You said you were Grey Wardens, no?”

“Yeeeees, as the newly formed pools of blood may testify to,” Alistair drawled.

“As Wardens, you fight the Blight?”

“It is the duty of all Wardens to drive back the darkspawn, whether it be a Blight or no, my lady.” Erik answered, his tone no longer as cold as it had been when he addressed Loghain’s men, yet still even.

“While none of us actually _admitted_ to being Wardens until now, may I ask why you wish to know? I’d prefer not having a similar encounter as we just had again.” Celestine said before the redhead could say anything in response to Erik.

The Chantry Sister looked at Celestine, her pale grey eyes studying in a manner that belied the almost carefree and melodious voice. Then her expression turned serious. “I wish to join you.” Her former bubbly behaviour was now solemn.

Alistair looked at her with a brow raised, “You do realise that we’re not on some picnic, right? Wardens fighting a Blight means taint, darkspawn and death. Lots of…death….” His former humour vanished as his eyes grew distant. Celestine put a hand on his shoulder, like she had with Elisa and it seemed to bring him back to his senses. “Of course, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t curious why a Chantry Sister would want to _fight_ \- never mind darkspawn.”

“Not all of us have lived our whole lives in the Chantry, you know? Some of us have a more…worldly past.” Saying this, the redhead looked at the bodies of the two men just behind her. “Lives we may no longer wish to lead. But I digress,” she almost instantaneously changed back to the beaming girl from before, “I wish to join you because I believe it is the Maker’s will for me to do so.”

“ _Riiight_ ,” Alistair drawled, “because it’s that easy: ‘Hi, look here, I got a missive from the Maker telling me to kill evil things.’“ He paused thinking. “Mind you, that does sound somewhat plausible. More likely if one were to stand near the incense braziers for too long, but plausible.”

Celestine smiled quietly at her recruiter’s antics, but then turned to the Sister. “While most of us appreciate Alistair’s interesting way of expressing himself, I have to point out that he makes a fair point. What makes you think that this is something the Maker wishes for you to do, or at least why you in particular. I’m pretty sure I was chosen due to a series of very, uh, something, events. Dramatic?”

The Chantry Sister nodded, her head bobbing enthusiastically with the gesture. “Of course you are right, and have cause to want to know and be suspicious. But may I ask that we can speak somewhere…less likely to be charged by angry Templars?”

Erik huffed. “Yes, I suspect they will be none too pleased when they hear of this altercation.”

He had just finished speaking when the door was kicked open.

~o~

Samantha Trevelyan was sitting on her cot in the bare room. It was a communal sleeping area for the Tranquil, and since none of them had any need for personal effects or creature comforts the room was inhumanly spartan.

The roof was low and flat, no need for vast arching ceilings where no one would appreciate them. Every Tranquil was assigned four square meters of space, enough for a cot and a trunk for clothes and any possessions they might have, which if any, were few.

Most of the Tranquil were still out, as it was early in the evening, dinner for the mages and templars just having been served. But she was not alone; there were one or two others already sleeping. She would soon be too, the only thing still keeping her up the cataloguing of the day’s events as was her routine. Not that they were ever different, apart from what the First Enchanter actually did; her roles and duties remained pretty much the same.

There was a grunt several cots over and several other small noises - nothing new, merely Ser Yorthal having his way with Naitri again. Samantha may have cared once, she may have been disgusted, she may have been aroused, but as she was, she was nothing, she was Tranquil. Just as Naitri was, who bore the templar’s rough affections without complaint. Samantha catalogued that as well.

But then something changed. A small thing, but it was different from her routine. She heard footfalls outside the door. She heard the door burst open, the sudden brighter light from the corridor momentarily blinding her. Her eyes adjusted just in time to see two templars dragging out Ser Yorthal, who was shouting and struggling, his breeches still twisted about his legs under the skirts of his armour effectively making his struggle that much harder.

Presiding over these events was Knight-Commander Travis, his eyes hard as he watched his former brother of the Order get dragged away. After the man disappeared around a corner, Ser Travis nodded at a mage hovering at his elbow, who went down to Naitri to ensure there would be no lasting damage.

The Templar turned away from the scene, a look of disgust on his face. His eyes roamed the small room, eventually settling on Samantha. A look of surprise flashed over his features, which he quickly schooled to be impassive again. Samantha wondered what the Templar was being so cautious for. He was the head of the Order in Ostwick; no Tranquil would ever be able to go against him. Those sundered from the Fade would die before breaking rules. Samantha catalogued this as well.

“Martin, finish up there, I need to have that rutting animal dealt with and Aonar normally prefers to have a letter accompany prisoners,” Travis ordered, his voice gruff.

“Yes, Knight-Commander, fortunately she seems not to have gotten too badly hurt and the fool managed to avoid causing…other complications.”

“Good, the First Enchanter’s pet, Trevelyan, is here. I don’t quite trust that man’s research.”

The room was once more bathed in darkness as the door slammed shut behind the mage and Templar as they left. Naitri climbed back on her cot from where the mage had treated her and seemed to fall asleep almost instantly.

Samantha was once again alone; the only sign that there were other occupants in the room being the soft sigh of several sets of lungs breathing. There was no muttering or rolling, no shifting or sighing, there was not even snoring. The Tranquil slept, but they did not dream. Samantha catalogued this and then joined them.

~o~

The door was kicked open so hard that it bounced right back off the wall, knocking into the person who had opened it. This was followed by muffled swearing as the door opened again, slower this time, to reveal Hawke.

The Wardens gathered in the centre of the inn visibly relaxed, letting go of sword grips and staff hafts.

“Maferath’s monstrous earlobes, fucking doors have it out for me!” Celestine’s cousin exclaimed as the stalked into the room, rubbing the side of her head, which was already sporting a growing bruise.

“ _Sorana_!” There was a blur across the room as Celestine hurtled into the other woman, almost knocking her over. “I thought I’d lost you when we heard about Ostagar.”

“Easy there, love. We made it out by the skin of our teeth, thanks to my sneaky shenanigans,” she looked over her shoulder to someone outside the door, “and Carver had a good idea for once. But don’t tell him that, it’ll go straight to his head.”

The powerful man they had seen with Hawke at the tower walked into the room, pulling someone behind him. “I heard that you know, and something going to someone’s head? That’s as rich as Antivan cuisine coming from _you_.”

“What? Nonsense! I’m the best thing that ever existed. Nothing can get to my head, things that would are merely true and I humbly accept any such compliments.”

The man groaned, Celestine was sure he would have face-palmed were he not manhandling someone. This someone he promptly pushed to the ground as soon as he had made it past her cousin. He was followed in by Elisa, who was looking bemused, but waved at them as she spotted them and slid past Carver, careful not to step on his former burden as she came to stand next to her brother.

Which was when Hawke marched up to Alistair and started poking his cuirass with an authoritative finger. “ _I told you to take care of my cousin_.” Each word was emphasised by a tap, with so much power behind them that it actually caused the armoured man to sway a bit as he tried to maintain his ground.

“I’m sorry.” He dragged out the word far longer than was necessary, “It all happened too fast! It won’t happen again! I swear it on my love for cheese.”

“Hmph, well. So long as I don’t see a bigass cut down her face the next time we meet. _Or you’ll be needing a face, do I make myself clear?!_ ”

“Yes, Ser! Those are entirely agreeable terms!”

Celestine was trying to hide her smile as her relative railed at her companion, when she heard a snort from where Carver was standing. “So you’re this ‘ _cousin_ ’ she’s been going on about. Suppose that makes you mine too; Carver Hawke.” He reached out a hand to her, which she shook. He had a powerful grip.

“This schmuck on the ground ran into us as we were about to enter, screaming like there was a legion of demons clawing at his legs.” Carver nudged the man on the ground, who whimpered, curled up, and started quivering.

“In reality, no, but in his mind? Oh you have _no_ idea.” This was said by Morrigan, who had a satisfied smirk playing on her lips.

Carver looked at her, his golden eyes piercing as they narrowed, inspecting the witch. “Is that so?”

Unsure of what to do with the man, they let him go with a warning for Loghain: that the Grey Wardens knew of his treachery and would have him face the consequences of his actions.

The party – now almost doubled in size – gratefully left the inn and its newly stained floors. The Chantry Sister dropped a large bag of gold on the counter to pay for the damages, garnering several questioning looks, to which she just smiled. The group then followed after Hawke, who said that their family’s home was nearby and could accommodate them for the night.


	21. Prophetia

To say the Hawke residence was cosy was an understatement. Celestine had lived in a monumental structure nearly all her life, and despite how impressive the tower at Kinloch Hold was, she would have given it up willingly and without thought were she to be given this alternative.

The plot of land was slightly set apart from most others in the area, most of them seemingly trying to be as close to Lothering while still within their boundary-stones. The Hawke home instead seemed to be shying away from it. One of the building’s walls was the living stone of one of the hills that was starting to rise out of the ground more and more the further they got from the Korcari Wilds. It was clear they were getting closer to the Hinterlands, a region of very rough terrain just south of Redcliffe.

The holding consisted of a house and a small barn, both of whose foundation was made of mortar and stones up to chest-height, where the rest of the building was then constructed of wooden planks. The roof was also made of wooden boards but covered with well-kept thatch and pitch to waterproof it.

The path to the house was paved with naturally flat stones around which tufts of grass grew; the rest of the space in front of the building was used up by neatly kept rows of crops. Not many, just enough to feed a family with enough to spare for the weekly market visits.

There was a woman about her age working the soil with a hoe a short distance from where a simple wooden fence demarcated the end of the property. She straightened up when the party drew nearer, either having heard or seen them. Her hair was as dark as Celestine’s own and the woman wore it in a very similar fashion, the only difference being that it was slightly longer and wavier than the Circle Mage’s. She wore a simple brown dress, numerous soil-stains and patched tears indicating that these clothes were purely practical. The girl also sported a rich tan, no doubt due to hours of having toiled under the day’s sun.

At first she seemed to scrutinize the approaching party, but as her eyes came to rest on Hawke and Carver her face lit up. She almost jumped out of the dug-over soil, dropping the hoe and running towards them.

“Sister! Carver! Andraste be praised, you’re all right!” she exclaimed after detaching herself from Carver and Hawke, whom she had wrapped both her arms around, Carver looking slightly uncomfortable with the gesture.

There were tears streaming down the woman’s cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust that coated her from her labours in the field. “We thought that…after the news from Ostagar…Maker. It’s so good to see you’re safe.”

Hawke laughed; the sound seeming to be a release of stress that had built up over the past few days. “Hi Beth, it’s good to see you. Taking good care of Mother I hope?”

“Yes, she’s inside hanging up the carrots we pulled out this morning. Oh, she’ll be happy to see you two too. I’d suggested that we travel up to Redcliffe, with the Blight coming and all, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I think she would have been willing to die in its path had you not returned.” A shadow seemed to pass over the woman’s expression as she spoke.

“Well good thing there’s no need for that! I swear she must be where Carver gets all the stubborn from.” Hawke consoled the woman.

Carver snorted. “Yes, _I’m_ the stubborn one.”

“See? He agrees.”

At this Carver merely snorted, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

The woman gently poked Hawke in the ribs, smiling softly. “Sister, you have people with you that you have yet to introduce.”

“Ah, yes! That was almost rude of me.” Hawke flourished towards her sister. “Wardens, meet my sister, Bethany. Sister, meet my Wardens.” The raven-haired soldier started pointing at each in turn, naming them, “That’s the cheese-guy, Alice-something. Those two are nobs from somewhere, Elisa and Erik. The alluring one is Morrigan, a witch,” to which she added in a loud whisper: “ _I think that’s awesome_. You know Sister Leliana already; the amazing mutts are Alfonse and Triss. _Aaannnd_ this beautiful lass is Celestine, our one and only cousin! Or, well, one of them at any rate, no idea if we have any others.”

“My name…is Alis _tair_.”

“Yes, we know you stare, well I do at any rate and at whom too,” Hawke dismissed, but winked at him when no one else was looking.

Bethany’s eyes grew wide at the introductions, “Wardens? Cousin? Nobles? A _witch?_ Maker…mother will have a fit. The house is a mess!”

“Pff, it’s _fine_ – besides, everywhere else is chock-full of people fleeing the Blight. Speaking of, let’s get a move on. I do hope you’ve remembered Father’s measures.”

“Yes, everything is ready.”

“Good. The Wardens will stay the night, but will move on in the morning. We’ll pick up anything still needed in town and then and make for Denerim.”

Leandra Hawke dealt with the unexpected company admirably, somehow managing to find bed and board for all of them in the small building, while the dogs decided to take shelter in the barn, startling an old dairy cow. Sorana’s mother took a particular interest in Celestine, telling her a great deal about her family after the evening meal, surprising even her own children with the revelation that the Amells were in fact, nobility.

“If I may be so bold as to ask, Mistress Hawke, but why are you living here and as you are, if your parents were prominent figures in the Free Marches?” Erik queried.

“Please, call me Leandra, and the reason for how we came to be here is that my parents did not approve of Malcolm: Sorana, Carver and Bethany’s father.” Leandra paused. “They took issue with his…heritage.”

“What she means, is that they didn’t like her running off with a mage,” Sorana stated bluntly. She was sitting on a backwards-facing chair, legs splayed on either side of the back-rest, rocking it as she chewed on one of the carrots that had been picked earlier that day.

“Your father was a mage? But the Circle…oh,” Celestine’s sentence drifted off as realisation struck her.

“Yep, one bona-fide apostate.” Hawke finished the sentence.

Leandra looked at the assembled Wardens. “It was in fact the Grey Wardens that helped us get out of Kirkwall. I have no idea how, but when my parents locked me in after finding out about us…he showed up in our courtyard surrounded by an entire battalion, saying he would not leave until I was free to go with him.”

Morrigan gave a derisive snort from her position leaning against a pillar slightly further away from the group. When she received several questioning looks, she shook her head and walked out of the building, the flutter of wings following her disappearance out the door.

“I have to ask,” Celestine picked up after the witch’s departure, trying to work around the silence that had fallen, “from what I’ve read, research states that the progeny of mages generally also...exhibit similar signs.”

“Exhibit she says,” Hawke laughed, Carver made an annoyed sound from where he was sitting. “Cousin Dearest, you have _no_ idea.”

With that Hawke snapped her fingers and there was a soft whoosh as her hand was enveloped in a blue aura. Celestine’s eyes grew wide, Erik and Elisa stiffened, Leliana gasped and Alistair breathed something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Andraste’s Blessed Dairy Products’.

Hawke shook her hand and the blue light dissipated as if it had been mere smoke. “Yes, Blondie, you have a great many reasons to take good care of her,” the raven-haired woman was wearing a wicked grin as she looked at the most senior Warden present.

Erik cleared his throat, putting a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Messere Hawke, you are remarkably skilled in melee for a practitioner of the arcane.”

Hawke turned her grin on him. “Only a fool would be in the position I am in and not be able to take care of oneself without the use of magic. Besides, like this no one ever suspects a thing.”

“True.”

Elisa seemed to have recovered her normal composure, returning to the cheery woman she always was. “I wonder if there are any practitioners of magic that have taken up fighting as a rogue would.”

Alistair groaned, running a hand over his face. “Maker, Elisa, I’ll never be able to feel safe again if you go around saying things like that.”

She looked at him sternly. “Not while you’re with either Erik or Celestine. Mabari can detect anything.”

The blond-haired man turned to Celestine. “Please let me follow you around for so long as Triss decides that she’s yours?”

Celestine giggled. “Why yes of course, brave ser.”

While he was probably unaware of it, most smiled inwardly at the expression of supreme happiness that seemed to settle on his features.

The diverse group continued to talk late into the night, finally ending with a ballad sung by Leliana, telling the story of a fierce warrior fighting all manner of foes, from men and beasts to monsters.

The companions then bid each other goodnight, all going to their chosen sleeping places, and spent the night under a friendly roof for the first time in several days. The slowly growing itch at the back of the Wardens’ minds was a constant reminder that the Darkspawn were out there, and drawing ever nearer.

~o~

“What do you all make of this?” Celestine asked the group.

They had woken early, bidding farewell to the Circle mage’s relatives, Bethany and Sorana both leaving to gather any last-minute supplies from Lothering. The Wardens’ group had been surprised at how prepared the family was to leave their home behind, only to be reminded that having apostates in the family meant having a constant plan to move if they were discovered by the Templars. This was a grounding realisation to Celestine after her mind had blown up the picturesque existence the Hawkes seemed to live to paradise-like standards.

Morrigan was the first to speak, tone dismissive. “I say we leave him.”

Erik just shrugged; he did not particularly care. Alistair also shrugged, saying: “We’re already just short a dwarf and elf on a full circus; might as well add a Qunari while we’re at it.”

Leliana seemed torn, chewing on her lower lip as she looked from Celestine to the Qunari and back again. Elisa stared at the massive man, eyes roaming him from head to toe. “I like his muscles.”

Erik sighed.

They had found the gibbet just outside the furthermost borders of Lothering, where the farmland ended and the wilderness took over again. Inside was standing a man at least half a person taller than any human the rest of the group had ever seen. His hair was a shocking white, the colour of ice, and his skin a deep grey, oddly similar in shade to bronto hide. He was staring at the group impassively; he had recounted the reasons for being in the situation that he was, but he seemed not to resent his captors. Rather, he seemed to accept this fate as his due for the deaths of the farming family that he had been responsible for.

Celestine pressed her fingers to her temples; the day had started wonderfully, but with the singing in the back of her head growing louder compounded with having to deal with decisions like this, she was starting to develop a rather spectacular headache.

“I’ll have a talk with the Revered Mother; we’re missing larger weapon wielders at the moment as it is. He can earn his redemption fighting the Blight as many Wardens do and fulfill his assignment for the Arishok while he’s at it.”

Erik nodded. “Considering we’re all we have currently, versus a Blight and a regent’s army, any extra assistance is welcome.”

Since no one else seemed to overtly disagree with the decision, the Mage nodded, and, waving at Leliana to follow her back to the town, set off.

~o~

“So, you said you would further explain your supposed ‘message’ from the Maker,” Celestine said once they had gotten some distance from the rest of the group, who had taken to finding somewhere to rest while they waited.

“Indeed I did.” It sounded as if the red-haired woman was slightly hesitant to recount her reasons now that she was faced with actually doing so.

“Well, explain away,” Celestine nudged.

“It was in a dream. I saw the world swallowed by a growing darkness.” The cadence of the Chantry Sister’s voice compelled Celestine to listen, to believe. “I was alone, the darkness having consumed everything, leaving a great gaping void.” Leliana looked at Celestine earnestly. “I woke, more horrified and frightened than I had ever been.” The way she said it implied that meant it was indeed very frightening, far more than many things Celestine herself had ever experienced. “I went to the Chantry gardens as I often did, trying to find solace among the flowering blooms that the other Sisters tend there. I happened to walk past the gnarled and twisted form of a rose bush that had never flowered despite the Sisters’ best efforts. But this time, there was a single bloom flowering amongst the dead thorns, proud and beautiful, yet still so fragile. Or so I thought until I touched it. It would not let itself be picked, the petals would not come loose, the knife I used to try and cut it off still needs to be re-sharpened. It was strong, stronger than anything I have ever encountered. That day you arrived in the village.”

Celestine looked thoughtful, “Interesting, do you think this flower is still there?”

“I don’t think anything would be able to remove it.”

“Do you think we could have a look after speaking with the Revered Mother?”

“Of course. You most likely passed by the garden when you first entered the village. But you asked for my reasons for wanting to follow you – there they are.”

Celestine put a hand on the other woman’s arm as a gesture of acceptance. “It’s alright, I’m not sure if any of this is or will be true for me, but it no doubt strengthened your faith; I will not fault someone for that, not when there are times my own needs it just as much.” The mage paused slightly. “Besides, even if you’re not a monster bull-man, we could still use your help if our current predicament is anything to go by.”

Leliana blinked rapidly several times, looking away to brush away a treacherous tear. Not even the Sisters in the Chantry had treated her with such acceptance; instead they had ridiculed and ostracised her because of her ideas on faith, the Maker and his Bride. She had begun doubting the dream and the sign herself, but the dark-haired mage’s answer to her had alleviated those. Even if it had all been a Felandaris-induced hallucination, this woman was that unbreakable rose, a light that broke through the darkness in their hour of need.


	22. Prophetia Intervallum

“I swear, all this walking will be the end of me,” Elisa groaned as they trudged down the road towards Redcliffe.

“Nothing for it, Sister; you know just how much horses are valued here; they would have been moved as far north as possible while still remaining in the country. Some might even have had theirs shipped over the Waking Sea or into Orlais,” Erik answered, he himself looking none the worse for wear despite the heavy armour that he carried in his pack in addition to his share of the supplies.

“I’m glad we ran across that strange dwarf,” Leliana commented, she herself looking for all intents and purposes like she were merely taking an afternoon stroll instead of hiking across the country. She had abandoned her Chantry Sister’s robes in favour of a fine set of leather armour that she had retrieved when Celestine and she met with the Revered Mother in regards to Sten, their newest companion. Elisa had been green with envy upon seeing the red-head’s equipment, but finally contented herself with admitting that it was not truly suited for her, offering less protection and being more ideal for use as an archer, a skill that she had never truly pursued further than was absolutely necessary for partaking in Hunts.

Sten spent most of his time at the back of their small column, providing a strange form of motivation for nobody to fall behind. Upon being freed he had immediately torn off the shirt that he had been wearing in the cage – something that, while not admitting it aloud, all the ladies present appreciated. After receiving permission from Celestine for a short foray into the woods, who had been far too flustered seeing a man’s bare chest for the first time - and a finely sculpted one at that - to think about her answer too greatly, he emerged again, bearing several herbs. He then, using Morrigan’s mortar and pestle, turned them into a paste that he daubed across his muscular frame, painting himself with geometric patterns that helped remove any perception that he was human. Across his back he slung the huge axe that Leliana had thought to pick up in Lothering as well, as soon as they had convinced the Revered Mother to release the Qunari into the Wardens’ custody. Celestine promised herself to ask about this ritual as soon as she found that she could talk to him without having her eyes drift towards his painted pectorals.

“And what makes you say that?” Alistair asked, sounding genuinely curious. “You do realise that our meeting them was purely due to the Darkspawn attacking, and I’d never say that encountering Darkspawn would be something to be glad about.”

“Because, fool, the dwarf is clearly a scavenger; much like our delusional _Sister_ here is.” The way Morrigan said it made it clear that she meant nothing positive by referring to Leliana as a member of the Chantry.

The witch’s acid tone didn’t seem to faze the red-head at all though, who simply beamed at Alistair. “She is right in a sense. I hadn’t thought anyone noticed that I had taken the gold I paid the innkeeper with from the men we had just killed.”

Alistair paled. “You looted the dead?!” his tone was mortified.

“Of course - it was not as if they were going to use anything anymore,” the former Chantry Sister responded matter-of-factly.

“Let it be, Alistair,” Erik called from the front where he was walking with Celestine, “I have seen entire battlefields strewn with corpses and while it might be distasteful, there is a certain pragmatism to…re-appropriating that which once belonged to the dead; technically that’s exactly what my sword and shield are.”

Alistair made a grumbling noise, but didn’t pursue the topic any further.

Celestine returned to quizzing Erik about everything she could think of as they walked. The young noble had built up a considerable knowledge of Thedas and in particular Ferelden. Whenever they passed certain landmarks, he would be able to point them out and recount what events had caused that place to be added to the history books, or what history remembered of certain things and places.

His retelling was never as accurate as an entry in a book would have been, but it added far greater complexity when there were links between occurrences and places that Erik could tie together. Currently they were passing through the middle of the Hinterlands, drawing closer to a crossroads in the Imperial highway, where the road would split off between the one heading east, towards Orzammar, the underground city of the dwarves, and Orlais, Ferelden’s closest neighbouring country; the other headed west towards Denerim, Ferelden’s Capitol and the last headed north, towards Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold.

Celestine recalled heading through this area after first making it out of the Circle. She had been all wide eyes and wonder then, spending nights underneath a starry sky and on a floor not made of paved stones; walking through forests and meadows that seemed to rejoice in the mere fact of their existence. Even passing by the strange stone carvings left behind by the ancient Avvar tribes was fascinating.

The experienced had revitalised her after the encounter with Jowan; his betrayal had hurt almost as a physical wound might have, the only person she had trusted her entire life at the Circle had turned on her. To make it worse, she had seen the effect of his turning to Blood Magic had had on Lily. The poor girl had suddenly doubted everything about their relationship, had questioned whether or not she’d been acting of her own accord, had wondered when it was that he had turned to using the forbidden art or if he had always been doing so throughout their being associated. Then Lily had been sent to Aonar. Celestine knew that many mages viewed the Circles as a prison, but what was a place like that _Templars_ considered a prison?

The outside world had cleared her mind of that ordeal, the fascinating encounters with livestock and wildlife – the sheer variety! She recalled how it had taken Alistair the better part of a day to compose himself after seeing her reaction to druffalo – the first she had seen had terrified her!

It had helped being in the company of the strange man as well; his boundless enthusiasm and strange interests, his odd ways of expressing himself and how he had always seemed to try and care for her, his charge. It made her question a great deal of ideas she had formed over the years, reading of the Grey Wardens and living with the scrutiny of the Templars. This man had begun training as a Templar, yet Celestine could not picture any of those in the tower ending up conversing with her in the manner that he did.

She recalled that she had likened him to Ser Cullen when they had first stepped out of the Tower’s imposing shadow, but she had been wrong. Apart from truly minor similarities in appearance, the man that had recruited her into the Wardens was nothing like the other. Cullen had always been very stiff in his demeanour, where Alistair seemed to always be overly excited. Cullen had always seemed nervous and hesitant where Alistair charged forth in a clumsy but adorable manner. Cullen had always been serious where Alistair was anything but. Celestine halted her train of thought. Maker, what was she doing? Comparing the two, it was not fair to either.

“Ahum, sorry about that - what were you saying?” she asked Erik, who had been silent for a while now, quietly smiling to himself. Celestine silently kicked herself and hoped that her fawning had not been too obvious. _I wonder if Alistair’s chest looks anything like Sten’s…dammit…_ where had that thought come from? Yet she did not deny to herself that now that it had occurred to her, that she was now very curious on that matter - unaware that behind her, the subject of her thoughts was having difficulties with very similar ones.

_Maferath’s soiled drawers...think of anything else! Something, DO NOT WATCH THE SWAY OF THE HIPS. NO. STOP. Think cheese, Blight, Darkspawn, serious things! Maker, why didn’t they cover this part of dealing with mages in Templar training? REMEMBER TO SAVE THE WORLD ALISTAIR! WORLD! SAVE!_

~o~

Samantha walked up to Deon, the Tranquil in charge of the Circle’s stores. She handed him the note she had been given, and he took it. His almost uncaring eyes scanned the sheet, then he turned around, walked over towards the locked cupboards, and using a large iron key, opened one of them, pulled out an object, wrapped it in an oiled cloth and locked the compartment again. Turning back to Samantha, he handed over the object. She opened the leather pouch she’d been given for this task and dropped the item inside. Flipping the lid of the bag closed, she secured it using the thin straps. Runes on the leather glowed briefly as the bag’s enchantment activated, but faded again, leaving Samantha with a bag that looked completely normal.

“Oh, hi Samantha,” a female voice said from behind her. She knew it. It belonged to Apprentice Minaev.

“Greetings, Apprentice.”

The young elf made a face at being addressed by her title. She was new to the Circle, having been brought in only a month ago by the Templars that had rescued her from a mob. “I would prefer it if you called me by my name.”

“Tranquil are prohibited from addressing any non-Tranquil without the use of the appropriate honourific.”

Minaev made a face again. “Stupid rules,” but then she looked at Samantha with a different expression. Samantha could not interpret it. “But I suppose you prefer it this way, everything structured, no deviation, all energy conserved for the tasks which are most vital.”

“I do not have preferences.”

The elf sighed. “Ah well, it was nice talking with you; I’m sure the First Enchanter has sent you on another vitally important errand again, forgetting that even Tranquil need to eat.”

“The First Enchanter’s tasks take precedence.”

“Yes, yes, get on with it before you get in trouble.”

Samantha left, starting down the steps that led to the research chambers of the First Enchante; she catalogued the exchange she had had with the elf. The First Enchanter would want to know of it; he always wanted a full recounting of any social interactions she had had with any non-Tranquil.

She reached the level where the First Enchanter’s laboratory was located. Using a measured pace she wound her ways through the corridors until she came to the right door. She rapped the pattern he had told her to use onto the wood and walked in as the door opened of its own volition.

“Ah, Trevelyan, you’re back; fast as always.”

“I always operate at optimal capacity, First Enchanter.”

“That you do, that you do; tell me, did you have any interesting encounters?”

“Yes, I was approached by the new Apprentice, the elf, Minaev.”

“Ah, good, good; the Dalish one, a new perspective will be welcome. I’ll ask you to tell me how it played out later. But first, go to the mess and get yourself something to eat. My stomach has been making its presence known today, and I think I will make sure to silence it soon before it drives me insane. Well…more insane.”

“Yes, First Enchanter,” Samantha responded neutrally.

“What? Oh, yes. Food. The Mess. Off with you now.” The old man made a shooing gesture as he watched his Tranquil assistant leave.

~o~

They had passed by several houses, the wooden structures standing conspicuously empty. Weary of what might have caused the buildings to be unoccupied, the group was on high-alert, everyone’s hands hovering on or near their weapons.

They rounded a large boulder to be presented with a set of gates, which like the houses they had passed, seemed to be abandoned – there were no sentries checking passers-by, and no guards patrolling the top of the fortification. The wrongness sent a shiver down Celestine’s spine.

Elisa hissed for the group to stop, and everyone froze. Nothing changed, until a short while later they heard the crunch of footsteps on the path ahead – they were fast, running. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath until the figure rounded the bend, which allowed everyone to relax somewhat; it was only a man, seemingly a merchant of sorts, or an artisan, judging by the quality of his clothes.

The man ran up to the group when he saw them, collapsing on the ground at their feet as soon as he was close, breathing ragged. “Thank…the…Maker.” He gasped.

Celestine moved forward to help him up despite unhappy sounds coming from numerous members of the party. She leaned down and rubbed a glowing hand down his back; the man, unaware of her spell, seemed to breathe easier, giving Celestine a grateful look.

A short moment later he was able to struggle to his feet. “Thank you friends, I thought I was done for. But it seems they stopped following me.”

Erik looked at him, taking in the condition of the man’s clothes. “’They’?”

“You don’t know?” The man looked from one companion to the next, his face growing slightly more panicked as each face revealed to be merely confused at what he said, or entirely expressionless. “The town’s been under attack for the past several weeks! First we heard that the Arl was sick and that his knights had been sent out to try and find a cure for whatever ailed him, next, the dead were streaming out of the castle. Every night they’ve been attacking the town; the Bann has been doing his best to hold them off, but they won’t be able to hold out for much longer. I saw an opening and ran; they almost got me back there.” The man shuddered, “Blessed Andraste, if I never encounter the living dead again it will be too soon.”

Celestine looked between the members of their group, they all had the same look in their eyes, well, all save Morrigan and Sten. Erik gave a curt nod, and Celestine straightened up, addressing the man. “Look, if Redcliffe’s been isolated for several weeks now, then it’s likely you haven’t heard the news: The King is dead, we - the last remaining Grey Wardens in the land - have been branded traitors by the regent and the Darkspawn are surging north unopposed. I suggest that if you plan to go anywhere, it be north – and well defended.”

The man’s eyes were wide by the time she finished. “The King is dead?! Darkspawn? Maker, it must be the end of the world!”

There was nothing more they could do for him, so the group formed up and passed underneath the archway that led into Redcliffe.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler, but admit it, a story without fillers is just a series of one-shots D:


	23. Domus Apoculs

Hawke swore colourfully as another Darkspawn launched itself at her; these Shrieks were almost like the tainted equivalent of Ferelden Warhounds in how they were used - ranging out ahead of the horde itself, scuttling around in the shadows as predators, weakening or removing any resistance ahead of the main force. She barely managed to avoid the swipe of its sharp claws, sucking in her stomach as the serrated edges passed within an inch of the leather and chain protecting her gut.

Reacting swiftly, she swung around her weapon – a miserable excuse for a broom – and cracked the aged wood over the creature’s hooded head. What little she had seen underneath these things’ hoods had been evil eyes and teeth...far too many teeth. It shrieked out, the sound giving credence to their given name. Hawke hit it again. It seemed unperturbed by the hard wood knocking it over the head,  something that would have laid a normal man out cold.

Seeing that her assault was futile, Hawke angled the broom towards the creature as she would a spear, the bristles making for an almost comical spearhead. “Well fuck you too!” she shouted in response to its bestial noises. A spark jumped from among the stiffened straw bristles and Hawke moved, loosening her grip so that the shaft slipped down until she had a decent hold of it. Then, using a move much like her brother would with his greatsword when sweeping through numerous foes, she swung the broom around, the stick becoming one long handle as the bristles burst into flame, fire rushing from them, leaving the impression of a great flaming blade.

The broom stuck the Shriek and the beast proved its name once more, this time crying out as it was engulfed in fire, panicking and scuttling back into the small alley it had originally burst out of. Hawke made a satisfied sound, looked at the charred end of the broom still in her grip, and dismissively dropped it to the ground as she stalked away, the hot wood causing the puddle of water it landed in to hiss as it evaporated.

“Sister!” Bethany called as she hurried over, her dress torn and dirtied. “Maker, that was amazing!” She had just returned a child to its parent, it clutching to a dark raven feather. “The pretty lady gave it to me!” The child had exclaimed when she asked about it.

“Yes, yes, no time for that though, we need to get out of here. Shrieks showing up means the horde will be here before noon,” Sorana said, her tone lacking the normal snarky undercurrent.

The streets were filled with panicked villagers grabbing what they could before running north; Sorana and her sister were like islands of calm in the panic – apprehensive, but not afraid. “We must get to Mother and Carver,” Sorana stated. “He’ll be able to protect her until we get there, but there’ll be nothing any of us can do once the main body of their force arrives.”

Bethany simply nodded, her expression earnest. So began the Exodus of Lothering.

~o~

“ _FuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuck_.” Elisa’s string of swearing had become an undercurrent chant to their fighting as the Wardens cut through the undead.

The rogue was not in her element; the normally fatal strikes of her dance were being shrugged off by the demon-possessed corpses. It did not help that there was the occasional shambling body with a face that she thought she recognised from prior visits to the arling. It was too much like the Battle of Red Tide. _Fucking demons, fucking magic, fucking mages…_.

Alistair and Erik were at the centre of the Warden formation, using their shields to batter away any cadavers that got too close, allowing a small space for their companions to get a reprieve should the unending tide of the walking dead get too much.

Leliana was much in the same boat as Elisa, her arrows having little effect if they weren’t drawn to the point that the bow creaked loudly in protest and then drilling through the skulls into grey matter that was far gone by several days.

The only reasons the Wardens truly prevailed was due to the efforts of the last five members of the party. Celestine was immediately grateful that they had pulled the grey giant into their group, his massive axe cleaving through the unliving hordes like they were over-ripe fruit. Bile, congealed blood and other unmentionable gore splattered in the wake of the Qunari as he waded through the foe. She herself was standing alongside Morrigan, slightly further away from the fighting, their spells decimating huge swathes of walking corpses. Pillars of flame incinerated, lightning storms vaporised and entropic miasmas decomposed the possessed vessels before they could reach the party.

Darting in and out of the chaos were the two Mabari, their powerful jaws surprisingly effective at taking down the undead - crushing bone and dead muscle with savage ferocity.

It was in this manner that the companions fought through the abandoned streets, towards the centre of Redcliffe village. Nearing it, they could hear the sounds of weapons clashing accompanied by war cries and shouts of pain. The sounds were in stark contrast to the muted shuffle and stagger of the unliving, who did not call out as they were wounded, who did not feel anger as they saw their fellows fall, who did not whimper as they – already dead – died once more.

The promise of finding survivors among the haunted buildings proved to be a great uplifter as the Wardens’ group surged forward at the sounds of resistance, tired limbs reinvigorated. Celestine had to swerve to the side as the trunk of one of the undead sailed past her, separated from its legs by Sten’s great weapon and flung towards her by the explosion of her own fireball, its arms still grasping for anything to claw at as it burned.

Their tearing through the demon-possessed sea raised a weak cheer from the still living as they burst through to a barrier that looked to have been hastily erected. Joining up with the worn defenders the companions finished off the unliving, the unending tide seemingly having come to a halt.

The ragged band of survivors parted to let someone through as the Wardens gathered to properly greet them. The spokesperson was a middle-aged man with red-brown hair and unkempt stubble. He wore what might have been fine armour under all the layers of gore, but by the rust showing in some places it was apparent that it had been a while since it had been properly cared for.

He walked up to Celestine who stood at the head of their party and stuck out his hand in greeting, which she took. “You have my deepest thanks, my Lady. Had you and your companions not shown up we would surely have breathed our last today.” His eyes applieda tired honesty to what he said.

“Think nothing of it Messere. We have urgent business with the Arl and therefore it was conveniently aligned with our goals,” the Circle mage replied.

“Regardless, my gratitude remains. May I ask what such a capable group of fighters is doing seeking the Arl?” he asked.

“Teagan!”

The man’s eyes grew wide at Elisa’s exclamation, his face reddening as the noble rogue wrapped her arms around him, hugging tightly.

“Ah, uhm…Elisa?” He seemed unsure of what to do with his arms, but settled for gently, if awkwardly, patting her on the back. When she stepped back, tears streaming down her cheeks, the man now identified as Teagan gripped her by the shoulders and looked her over, awkwardness forgotten. “Maker, Elisa…what are you doing here? We haven’t had word from Highever in weeks!”

“Nor will you, Bann Teagan,” Erik said, stepping around Celestine to gather up his sister in his arms, whose tearful face had expanded into sobs at the mention of her home.

“What? Why?! And you’re here too, Erik?”

“Highever was sacked by Howe. We’re the only survivors that we know of.”

“Maker….” The Bann was stunned, his mind unable to process what had just been imparted to him. After a short silence he shook his head and looked from Celestine, pointedly looking at her robes, which, while now travel-worn, were still distinct Circle-issue. “That’s grave news, and according to your…companion here you seek the Arl?”

Celestine nodded, and realising that this was probably best handled by the nobles, she stepped away to stand next to Alistair. Sten had sat down on a low part of the barricade, using a dirty cloth to clean off his weapon, and garnering several fearful looks from the surviving townspeople. Morrigan was rifling through the recently re-killed corpses, seemingly uncaring when it came to physically handling the rotting bodies. Leliana was watching her, face turning a distinct green.

“You know, I never told you how that knight in the Chantry knew me.” Alistair said quietly to Celestine.

“Oh? Well, I’ll admit I was curious, but I wasn’t sure if running across people you know everywhere was or wasn’t the norm outside the Circle. I mean, I wasn’t even out of it for more than a week and already I ran into Wynne at the King’s camp.”

The blonde haired man chuckled. “Hah, I always forget that you have very little outside world experience. You always seem so sure.”

Celestine smiled, looking away from him, glad that her ears were hidden behind her hair, for they were burning with what was no doubt a furious blush at the slight compliment. “I believe you were going to tell me about the knight.”

“Oh, yes, the knight. Uhm… about that. I may have been raised here, by the Arl.” He stumbled through the explanation. “I was kept here, sleeping in the stables. I remember getting so furious with the Arl at one point for how I was treated, I threw the only memento I had of my mother at the wall…breaking it. Stupid really, but then the rumours about me being his bastard started circulating and his wife took issue with it that. Which was when I was shipped off to the Chantry. I wonder sometimes if there’s anything to that…breaking the memento and then being forced into the Chantry – considering that it was an Andrastean Amulet.”

Celestine had been listening in rapt attention to the tenor of his voice. When she realised that he had stopped she nodded slowly, then smiled at him. “Thank you for telling me; it means a lot that you trust me with this.”

It looked like Alistair was about to respond then the Bann called out, “Alistair?! Is that you?” The surprise in his voice was apparent, and he seemed to be done talking with the other two nobles.

Alistair sighed deeply, shrugging at Celestine. “I’m just happy to be able to tell someone and not have them make a jab at me about it.” He then turned to Teagan, nodding his greeting. “Bann Teagan.”

“Alistair! Last I saw you, you were getting carted off to the Chantry in Denerim by Isolde.”

“Yes, but I’m with the Wardens now. After Loghain’s betrayal we hoped to get some support from Arl Eamon. We heard that something was wrong from one of the knights in Lothering, but things here seem…to have gotten wronger.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll tell you what I know in the morning.” The Bann looked around, making note of their makeshift fortifications and the condition of the remaining defenders. “But first we must prepare for the night; the largest wave always comes just after twilight. With your help, we might even be able to hold out. With that wave depleted, the castle will hopefully be easier to take on, since that is no doubt your goal.”

Celestine stepped forward, forcing the man’s attention on her again. “Yes, have your people prepare. We’ll see if there are any other means by which we can assist in the defence.”

Bann Teagan,surprised, looked from the Amell to Alistair and the Couslands, then back, but finally he nodded. “Very well; we shall do all we can to prepare. Andraste guide you, Wardens.”


	24. Granum Timer

_Blood pumping. Legs aching. Lungs burning. Heart pounding._

The scuff of armour-shod boots just behind. The surge of adrenalin. The twitch of the head to catch sight of the arrival.

The snarling twist of the lips, the rumpling of the nose, the flicker of hate in the eyes.

The gleaming arc of the blade, the telltale whistle of metal cutting through flesh, the Inhuman squeal of pain, the clatter of a body hitting the floor.

_Blood pumping. Legs aching. Lungs burning. Heart pounding. Blade dripping._

The cry of pain just in front, the cold shiver of fear down the spine, the push to catch up.

The tender hands reaching to help, the critical eyes inspecting, the trusting of another with another’s life, the hurried resuming of the flight.

_Blood pumping. Legs aching. Lungs burning. Heart pounding. Blade dripping. Eyes worrying._

The rustle of thinning undergrowth, the clatter of ill-fitting armour, the gleeful howl of discovery.

Sorana Hawke turned again, swinging her glaive around as she heard another Darkspawn gain on them. The bladed staff cut through the creature’s gut and halfway through the trunk, lodging partially through the ribcage. She grunted, kicking the blighted creature off her weapon, turning to face the next foe.

It was not necessary; Carver’s greatsword cleaved through the air until it met flesh – the creature fell to the ground, the left side of the face looking somewhat confused at the lack of a right.

Hawke turned to face down the road they had just come up at the sound of more guttural Darkspawn howling, gritting her teeth and readying her blade again.

When they rounded the bend, Hawke heard a distinct whooshing noise behind her. She leaned to the right, just in time to have a missile of fire sail past her face, its passing heat making her skin feel stretched. The lobbed magic hit the floor just in front of the Darkspawn, exploding and bathing a large area with large licking flames.

“Maker’s balls, Beth, a little warning next time,” Sorana almost snarled, sounding annoyed.

“Sorry.” Bethany to her credit looked very apologetic.

“They just keep on coming,” Carver commented.

“Figures, considering how many we saw at Ostagar.” The constant threat of the Blight seemed to be taking its toll on the family’s head, her mood increasingly sour as opposed to the typical light-hearted snark. A shadowy flame seemed to be burning behind the lightning-blue eyes, fuelling her with the energy needed to flee and fight at the same time.

“Oh, Maker, how did it come to this? We’ve lost everything!” Leandra seemed on the verge of tears once more, having stoically fought them back earlier when the pain of spraining her ankle had shot up her leg.

“Where are we even going? We’ve nowhere to go,” Bethany reasoned, her voice quavering, on the edge of panic.

“Let’s run now, worry later? There are after all still several hundred monsters chasing after us,” Hawke retorted, tone clipped.

“Sorana is right; we must first have lives to worry about if we want to worry about them,” Leandra agreed.

Seeing that Bethany’s fire was keeping any pursuit at bay for the moment, Sorana took the lead, gripping tightly onto her staff.

They had taken what was most vital from their home upon their return from Lothering. News that the darkspawn were as near as they were was an impressive motivator. Sorana had entered the house like a whirlwind, barking commands at Carver, who knew her to well enough not to argue when this mood gripped her. He had already mostly prepared for departure, checking packs over before fetching the sword he had gotten during his time as a mercenary, the blade far better quality than the one given to him by the army.

Bethany had followed Hawke into the room they shared, intent upon changing out of the now-torn dress. She emerged before her older sister, wearing leather pants and a loose cotton blouse, and adding to the ensemble was a chain-mail guard that hugged her midriff. She promptly went to join Carver with the packs, picking one and hoisting it onto her shoulders. Sorana followed suit wearing a black leather coat that had minimalist gold embroidery decorating it. A blood red sash was tied about her waist, the whole outfit seeming so well-put together that one almost overlooked the plate mail protecting the left arm and sticking out from the coat’s unclosed button front. The greaves she wore were so finely crafted that they were almost indistinguishable from her knee-high boots.

Everyone was ready when she entered the comfortable house’s living area. She was holding three staves; one she tossed to Bethany, who fumbled to catch it, and the second she handed to her mother. The last she slipped into the harness on her back specifically suited for it before she picked up her pack..

They left together, smoke already rising from where Lothering lay.

~o~

She looked at him blankly, his leering face close enough to hers so that she could smell his breath. It smelled of Lyrium, spices and had a sour undercurrent. Samantha Trevelyan catalogued this.

“Come Tranquil, spill it, what is the First Enchanter doing?” His voice was deep, slightly rough; some would have found it pleasant; Samantha didn’t care.

“The First Enchanter’s research has been classified as confidential by his order. As a former Circle mage and with my current status of Circle Tranquil orders from the First Enchanter are only preceded by orders from the Knight-Commander and or by a Grand Cleric, the Grand Enchanter or the Divine herself.” The red-haired Tranquil replied in monotone.

“Maker damn precedence!” The man ground out. “Tell me what the weasel is up to!”

Someone put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Vernon, calm down. She’s Tranquil, they don’t have the willpower to go against the rules.” It was a woman’s voice, likely also a Templar judging by the gauntleted hand on Vernons’ pauldron.

“But these instructions came from the Knight-Captain himself, why would he give them without cause? How are we supposed to get any information without this waif spilling?” His voice seemed irritated - conflicting ideals Samantha concluded - the failing of emotions.

The male Templar – Vernon – sighed and stepped away from her, rubbing his temples, staring blankly at the floor as if searching it for answers. “Fine, I’ll see if there is another way we can get the information.

Samantha watched them as they rounded the corridor corner, knowing that by the sensation on her arms where the Knight-Templar had gripped her that there would be bruises. _Interesting, the First Enchanter was right. There are concerns among the Templar regarding his work. The Knight-Captain has been implicated, but is he acting alone? Or does the Knight-Commander himself have a hand in this?_

Samantha catalogued what had transpired and the thoughts she’d had on the matter. Returning to the route she’d been on she absently rubbed at the ache in her arms.

~o~

“Maker-damned dragon-fucking Magisters…if those cocks weren’t protected behind several Ages of having been dead I’d personally shove a fireball up their arses.”

_“Sorana!”_

“Not now Mother, besides, they totally deserve it,” Hawke argued as she decapitated what had to be the hundredth darkspawn that day.

Carver skewered another through the chest, pulling his blade out and then cleaning it of smoking blood on the creature’s own filthy attire. “Looks like that’s the last of them for now,” he observed, since nothing else jumped from behind any of the plentiful rocks to assault them.

The landscape had changed drastically from the quaint setting of Lothering. Their current surroundings were also shockingly different from even the Korcari Wilds to the south. It was as if they had stumbled upon a hidden desert in the south of Ferelden…there hadn’t been any wastelands in Ferelden as far as any of the Hawkes knew, so the state of their current location was more than a little unsettling. There was plenty  of evidence that there had once been grass here, but now there was mostly cracked earth, seemingly bereft of fertile soil, along with a great deal of twisted trees that stood like lifeless skeletons, overlooking the passersby.

The silence was useful, just as it was unnerving. They could hear the clamour of any Darkspawn ages before they were in sight, or at least the average Darkspawn. They had dispatched several Shrieks already, those encounters teaching the family to be on edge even when things seemed quiet.

“Hold on, I hear something,” Bethany hissed.

The others froze, Leandra coming to lean on her younger daughter to take the weight off her ankle when the mage wasn’t fighting. Sorana nodded; she too could hear the clamour of clashing weapons and the occasional shout accompanied by Darkspawn bellows.

“Fighting, that means someone other than just Darkspawn and we are here.” Carver observed.

“We should see if we can help,” Bethany urged.

Sorana barked a short laugh. “Famous last words. Alright, maybe they can help.”

The four Hawkes continued down the path until the source of the noise was revealed. Two humans were fighting off a wave of Darkspawn, the corpses of blighted creatures at their feet attesting that they had been at it for a while and were more than a little skilled. Sorana immediately felt that it was worth getting involved.

She and her brother charged forward, weapons cutting into the flanks of the Darkspawn attacking the other pair. Bethany shot a bolt of lightning from the staff she’d been given by her sister earlier; it hit the Darkspawn closest to Sorana, causing it to convulse as the strong static charge ran through it. Sorana swung her staff, casting a similar spell just as the blade landed. Electricity arced from that first unfortunate creature, jumping between all of those assembled. The incapacitation lasted only moments, but the humans made the most of it, until Sorana heard one of the ones they had come to save shout out in pain, falling to the ground. The other emitted a bellow of what sounded like fear and rage – suddenly becoming a blur of metal. Darkspawn blood sprayed everywhere.

The remaining blighted monsters quickly fell to the combined assault by the Hawkes and the stranger.

They stood there, breathing heavily as the stranger rushed towards the one who had fallen. This gave Sorana the opportunity to see what the pair were wearing. The one who had remained standing was wearing the plate of a Ferelden Army Captain, the other wore the robes and cuirass of a Templar. The Captain tore off their helm, revealing that they were in fact, a she. Flaming orange hair was pulled back so that it would not fall into her face, while she struggled to help up the Templar.

“Well the Maker has a sense of humour,” Bethany breathed. “First the Darkspawn and now a Templar.”

“You travel in the company of an apostate,” the man started, wincing, yet still managing to sound official.

The woman held onto him, letting him lean on her. “Wesley, now is not the time.”

But the man seemed not to let himself be deterred. “Be you accomplices, hostages or thralls?”

Sorana snorted at that, _what’s the point of asking if someone is a thrall?_ “I sincerely hope you jest, since I do not take kindly to threats made against my family.” She was starting to regret having felt that it was worth getting involved.

“The Order dictates...” The rest of his sentence was cut off as he groaned loudly, almost collapsing.

“Dear, they saved us, the Maker understands,” the Captain murmured to the man before looking at the assembled Hawkes, Leandra having come further forward now that the fighting was over. “I am Aveline Vallen, this is my husband, Ser Wesley. We were travelling north when the Darkspawn cut us off.”

“Aveline!” Sorana exclaimed, “I wasn’t sure if it was you, but with that hair….” She was now grinning.

The Captain looked perplexed, searching Sorana’s face, then it dawned on her. “You, you’re that Sergeant from back at Ostagar.”

“Sooo, you’re married to a Templar? That explains _everything_.”

“Sister, they decided to play nice, can’t you leave it at that,” Bethany bemoaned.

“What? This? If this is the Wrath of the Templars I don’t know what we’ve been hiding from. Fierce indeed.”

Ser Wesley laughed, or rather winced as he wheezed, “Moreso the wrath of their wives.”

“Wesley….” Aveline’s tone was stern, but it seemed to be born more of concern than resentment.

“Right, business. Darkspawn; you said you were cut off while heading north?” Sorana’s almost cheerful tone was in stark contrast to their situation.

“Yes, Wesley was heading south on business and I was moving north after Ostagar. I barely made it out…you’ll have to tell me how you did it when we’re safe. I recall you two heading back to keep the Darkspawn off us.” There was a grateful glance at that from the Captain. “We met up and decided to go back to Denerim, which was when we were attacked.”

Carver voiced Sorana’s dismay at the news. “North? But the Wilds are to the south, that’s no escape.”

The eldest Hawke offspring merely sighed loudly. “Well if it’s facing the Wilds as opposed to dealing with more Darkspawn, I choose the prior….even that place has to smell better than them.”

“Unless they are there too…” Leandra worried.

“We’ll deal with that when we get there. For now, flee south, panic later.”


	25. Vita Apoculs

Erik pulled his sword out of the possessed corpse’s skull, the vessel collapsing heavily at his feet as the demon inside was destroyed. There had always been something about the Blade of Highever that seemed to set it apart from other swords; the Cousland had thought it was only the exceptional craftsmanship, but he had been pleasantly surprised that whoever had crafted it had also had it enchanted to be more effective against the unliving. Where it would normally take several crippling blows to put down one of them, this sword did so with minimal effort.

He was standing in one of the openings in the barricade, holding back the walking corpses as the hastily reinforced walls funnelled them towards him. There were three more such openings, one being held each by Alistair, Sten and Bann Teagan.

It was proving an effective strategy against the almost comical tactics employed by the undead. Clearly these were not being directed personally, merely being sent forth to attack anything in the town. He was grateful for that; the way they had been backed into the Chantry would have been problematic against any enemy that might try to flank them through the building’s windows, or clamber over the barricade. Yet that was not the case, and so they held out.

Elisa slipped around her brother like an extra set of arms, the lack of effectiveness of her daggers causing her to switch to a more defensive role, hamstringing the dead so they would be less of a threat and then letting her brother finish them off.

“Remind me…to have that midget…enchant my daggers with the same thing yours has,” she panted between strikes.

Erik only chuckled, swinging his sword in a gleaming arc that decapitated a corpse that had gotten too close.

“Pth, _bastard!_ ”

He glanced over to see Elisa spitting, his swing having sprayed her face with bile. He laughed again. “I hope you realise that would make you as much a bastard.”

“Whatever,” the noble rogue muttered as she resumed her maiming.

Leliana was standing next to Morrigan on a wooden platform that had been built out of several tables, allowing them to launch attacks over the barricade. “Maker guide my aim and see these abominations gone from this world,” Leliana prayed as she loosed arrow after arrow into the throng.

She had found some lamp oil in the Chantry, which had probably been intended and consecrated for the eternal flame. But, she reasoned, their need was greater and so used it to construct flaming arrows that set the undead alight, in some cases even having small crowds of them to fall as they stumbled into one another, ragged remains of clothing burning.

“Hah, ‘tis not orison but skill that will serve us here, foolish woman,” Morrigan scoffed as she released an entropic cloud into the horde, causing dozens of dead to wither and collapse.

Sten was silently hewing through the walking corpses, several villagers with spears standing at his flanks to impale any of the cadavers that made it past him, much as they did with Teagan, where there were also a few hunters firing into the undead, trying to make up for the difference between the Bann’s defensive style and the cleaving attacks of the Qunari.

“You know, I hate this,” Alistair said off-hand.

Celestine, who was standing slightly behind him to his left chuckled. “Are you sure about hate?  Your tone says more ‘slightly concerned.’””

“No, it’s definitely hate. , Aside from the fact that I could swear I might have known some of these people, the stench is absolutely _terrible_.”

The blonde-haired Warden used the rim of his shield to cave in the skull of an approaching corpse, then stepped back with his left leg and swung around with the right, his sword following the motion as it disemboweled three undead at once. Celestine stepped within his reach, causing him to start as her hair almost flew into his mouth. She did not notice, however, as she flicked up the butt of her staff from the ground,  rocks exploding out of the cobbles at the feet of the undead, flinging several into the air, and one was crushed, having gotten caught in the middle of the new geological formation. She stepped back to where she had been earlier, smiling at his stunned expression. “Come on, Cheese-boy, there are undead yet to kill.”

He muttered something under his breath as he tried to forget the scent of her hair. Several unfortunate corpses met the angry swinging of his sword.

~o~

 _“Bethany!”_ both Sorana and Leandra screamed at the same time.

The girl had gone down in a horde of Darkspawn that had swamped her and her mother. Leandra was doing something completely out of character, using the staff her eldest had given her to attack the writhing swarm around her youngest daughter.  Luckily, Ser Wesley forcefully pushed her behind himself and used his sword and shield to fend off any whose attention the elderly woman had gotten before they could harm her.

Sorana seemed to barely move at all apart from her arms, the heartwood staff in her hands a blur around her as it cracked heads, snapped bones, cut flesh and pierced armour. She slowly moved to where her sister had disappeared, any Darkspawn near her either reeling away, fatally wounded, or collapsing to the ground, incapacitated.

She had almost reached the place when it erupted, a ripple of pure force throwing back all Darkspawn. It would also have thrown Sorana back had she not hastily erected a barrier; even then the shock caused her to have to take a step back. Crouching on the ground before her was Bethany, breathing heavily,her clothes soaked through with sweat, but unharmed.

The oldest Hawke ran to her sister, wrapping her arms around her, a relieved sob escaping her lungs as she held onto the other girl. “ _Maker_ , don’t _ever_ do that again Beth.”

A weak laugh escaped the twin, as she accepted her older sibling’s appreciation.

“ _Fuck_ , RANA, LOOK OUT!” Carver’s voice cracked as he shouted the warning.

It came just in time for Sorana to look up from where she was cradling her sister into the cruel orange beads that the ogre had for eyes, just in time for her to shift so that the massive creature’s arm slammed into her instead of her drained sibling.

Pain flared through her side and she could hear as several ribs snapped. The blow lifted her from where she had been kneeling on the ground into the air, and time seemed to stop for an instant as she experienced a strange weightlessness. Then time resumed and she crashed into the face of a cliff. The world exploded into white, dark blocks chewing at the corners of her vision – her consciousness. Her sight quickly swam back into view though, the lyrium in her blood augmenting the adrenalin that had already been pumping through her for the entire day. It returned just  in time to see the ogre hoist Bethany with one hand, the mage vainly flinging spells at it even while she was being lifted.

Everything seemed to slow down as the ogre bellowed its rage at the elemental assault; it lifted the struggling Hawke over its head before throwing her back to the ground. There was a loud crack and a soft grunt.

Sorana half crawled back to her feet, an expression of disbelief frozen onto her face, eyes that had been streaming tears of relief just moments before suddenly dry. The shock of what had just happened seemed too unreal.

Then the ogre lifted up its hand again, a now mangled Bethany still clutched in its grasp. The girl flopped uselessly in the creature’s grip, an arm and her neck at completely wrong angles. The creature roared again, swinging the now lifeless body back to the ground.

It all still seemed to move in slow motion to Sorana, impossible. Little Beth, who had followed after her, always cheerfully smiling and laughing. Little Beth, who had idolised her as only a younger sibling could. Little Beth who had fought with Carver about their carved wooden toys. Little Beth who never asked about _that_ night even though she wanted to know what had happened. Little Beth who had stayed behind to help Mother. Little Beth whom she had promised to teach how to protect herself. The limp doll in the ogre’s grasp couldn’t possibly be little Beth.

A muted scream slowly pierced through Sorana, shattering her shock. Then she could hear the full force of it - a scream of fear, sorrow, disbelief and rage. _Is that Mother screaming? No._ Leandra was just staring in wide-eyed horror. _No. This scream isn’t Mother’s, this scream is mine._

Like a pin dropping, the realisation that it was herself that she was hearing hit her. It was a small realisation, but it was one that broke open a dam. A flood of emotions suddenly surged through her, a flood of feelings that had all been expressed in that scream. A flood that she swallowed, snapping shut her jaw, lips quivering at the effort of keeping it contained. Her eyes grew bright at the pent up river that she was trying to hold back. But one path remained, a path that she had not blocked up.

There as an audible gasp from Ser Wesley’s position as the river burst its banks. Sorana’s fury flared, lighting up every hint of lyrium in her body. The mark across her nose grew warm as a nimbus of cyan fire swirled around her feet. The flames licked her legs, warm, but not unpleasantly so. Instead of charging at the ogre, to stop it from crushing her sister more, Sorana slammed down her staff, its blade digging into the hard ground. She left it standing there as blue flames started flickering around her hands.

There was a loud thumping noise, and the ogre bellowed.

A massive hand conjured from pure fade energy had gripped it around half its body, seemingly digging into the chest at the sternum, yet not drawing blood. The ogre dropped Bethany to claw at this new foe, but as the girl hit the floor another hand materialised, gripping the ogre from the other side.

The creature screamed, either in anger, or pain, as the two hands dug into it. Then they lifted it into the air, suspending it over the ground. Sorana pulled her hands apart, having mimicked everything the giant hands had done as a puppeteer would have. The ogre did not bellow again, it did not scream in rage, it merely came apart, torn in two.

Sorana panted, mana depleted from the ferocious use of magic, and Carver was running towards her as the world was swallowed by darkness. _Odd…I don’t remember seeing any dragons here before…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry ( T_T)
> 
> And thanks coffeeguru for suffering through this... and the suggestions.


	26. Luctus

“ _Teagan!_ ” a nasally Orlesian accented voice called, dragging out the ‘a’.

Celestine, Elisa, Erik, and Alistair whirled to face where the shout had come from, hands reaching for weapons.

“ _Teagan!_ ” The shout came again as a finely dressed woman started running down the road from the castle, where moments ago the undead had flooded forth. The Wardens looked to Celestine, who shook her head; the woman was no mage. Everyone visibly relaxed; the Bann turned to address her as she drew closer. “Isolde, how….”

He was cut off by the woman collapsing into his arms, causing the surprised man to struggle to hold her up. “Oh Teag _a_ n! It’s horrible!” the woman Teagan had called Isolde cried, looking up from his chest, her face streaked with tears and still remarkably clean, considering the Bann’s armour was covered in gore.

“It’s Connor. I don’t know what to do anymore, you _have_ to come with me!” she wailed.

“My Lady,” Erik started, only also to be cut off by the newest arrival.

“Teag _a_ n, tell these peasants to go away, we don’t have time!” The tone she said it in implied she thought of those accompanying the Bann about as much as she would have something stuck to the bottom of her finely embroidered shoes.

“I think it should be _us_ asking who _you_ might be,” Celestine replied, motioning to include those with her, her tone brokering no dispute. “Who so casually comes out of castle from which mere moments ago hordes of the dead were swarming forth?”

“Teag _a_ n, who is this?!”

The Bann finally seemed to tire of Isolde’s antics, gently but forcefully pushing her away from himself, and sighing heavily, “They are Grey Wardens Isolde and I owe them my life, the lives of the townspeople.”

“ _Wardens?!_ ” The revelation made the noble take a step back, suddenly hesitant. Celestine was sure the woman would have fallen on her backside had there not been a risk of dirtying herself; the woman seemed to have an uncanny ability to remain clean.

“Yes, we need to know what’s happening in the castle,” Celestine explained as calmly as she could, the redundancy of the past minute grating on her weary nerves.

Isolde broke into sobs for the second time. “Something’s wrong with Connor, my son. It’s all that mage’s fault! I managed to get out only because I promised to bring you back. Teagan, you must!”

Teagan looked at the Wardens, torn. “I… don’t see any alternative.”

“It’s a trap.” Elisa’s tone was flat.

“Yes,” the Bann agreed, “but if I don’t go, who knows what might happen? This way I might be able to prevent more death.”

“Well then, we’ll be coming along,” Celestine said after a moment’s pause. “Potentially throwing your life away like this is just foolish when you don’t need to.”

“ _Non_ , he _must_ come alone, or whatever that mage did to Connor will get angry!”

Teagan chewed on his lip in thought, “We may be able to do both….”

“Oh?”

“There’s a secret passage into the castle dungeons from underneath the old windmill. I can go with Isolde while you enter through there.”

Erik nodded. “It’s a risky plan, but probably the best option.”

Teagan took a moment to show them where the hidden entrance was before heading to the castle alongside Isolde, allowing everyone to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Maker, how does the woman do it?” Celestine asked.

She got several questioning looks.

“She somehow manages to make _every_ sentence an exclamation!”

Alistair chucked, “Ah, yes, she does that…must be an Orlesian thing. I’m just glad she didn’t recognise me.”

“ _I_ do not exclaim everything,” Leliana protested.

Elisa giggled, “No, but you _do_ make everything you say sound like its either scandalous gossip or pillow talk.”

The archer ducked her head down, her hair hiding her blush at the noble’s rather accurate description.

“Now, now, Sister. Let the sister be, she hasn’t done anything to deserve your teasing,” Erik reprimanded mildly.

“What is this, brother dearest? Do you wish to be the one to make her blush so prettily?”

“I…what? No! Nothing like that!”

Everyone besides Morrigan and Sten laughed at the Cousland’s flustered response; even the dogs were making a strange chuffing laughing noise.

“Oh, woe, mocked even by the hounds,” Erik finally managed, ears glowing.

They cut off the merriment then as they descended into the secret passage. Erik opted to stay behind lest something happen and they require freeing. Celestine agreed with him as Leliana, Sten, Alfonse and Triss were chosen to remain with him. Celestine was of half a mind to leave Morrigan with them as well, but that the witch might prove useful against something that concerned the unliving proved too great a reason to have her come along, even if it was at the risk of not having a mage in the reserve party.

~o~

Sorana slowly returned to the waking world - every part of her ached. It had been a good several years since she had exerted herself to the point where her reserves were all completely spent. She tasted the bitter tang of elfroot on her tongue, as well as the echoing song that seemed to define lyrium. She tried opening her eyes, only to close them tight again, blinded by the light of day.

Her lower half was decidedly uncomfortable, lying on a hard, gravelly surface. The other half was leaning against someone, a loving, quivering voice quietly singing to her, interrupted by the occasional hiccup or sniff.

Sorana shot up as what had transpired returned.

There was a startled protest behind her from the person she’d been leaning against, but that was the furthest thing from her mind. _Bethany!_

“ _Nononononononononononono._ ” She tried to convince herself that this was some terrible, lucid nightmare. That the pain in her bones was a dream. The gaping hole her stomach seemed to be plummeting into a lie. “ _No! Maker, NO!_ ”

She was kneeling next to the limp form of her sister, the younger Hawke’s head miraculously intact after the punishment it had taken. But it was by no means a pretty sight; the tanned skin was horribly bruised – purple and yellow discolouring what was not hidden by blood-matted hair- and it was clear that the neck had been broken.

She ignored the fretting around her; nothing existed outside the suddenly small girl she was gripping around the arms, the absence of a pulse all too obvious. It was an eternity while she held her sister, the world losing colour, all life. _Little Beth._

Dimly, she became aware of a hand resting on her shoulder, solid and warm, offering not to make all the terror go away, but to help endure it. Sorana turned to see Carver, face stone and eyes rimmed red. He nodded to her and she, after a deep, shuddering breath, nodded back. _Little Beth is gone, but she would not want us to die as well._

She did not always see eye to eye with her brother, and she resented his bitterness as much as he resented her pride. But in that moment, she loved him more than anything or anyone ever before, more than she thought she could possibly ever feel for someone. Carver had always been there, whether it was her getting him out of trouble, or the other way around; they had always had each other’s backs. Underneath all the facades, they were brother and sister, now not only bound by the death of their father, but by the death of their sister.

There was a sound from behind them, where the Darkspawn had swarmed from. Everyone turned at once, expecting to make their last stand. What they were not expecting was for a maroon dragon to swoop down out of the overcast sky and incinerate the Hurlocks that were charging at them.

The massive creature made a second pass, snatching up a Darkspawn that had managed to avoid the flames, its screeching form disappearing back into the clouds alongside the dragon, which re-appeared momentarily, hurtling towards the ground. Sorana was sure it would break itself on the rock-hard dirt that went on for miles around them; instead, at the last second it unfurled its wings, the snapping membrane catching it gently and allowing the creature to land on the ground without harm.

Suddenly faced with a dragon instead of Darkspawn, the scattered refugees became all the more wary. Each of them prayed that this creature would not attack them as it had the Blighted. Sorana felt a ripple in the Fade and as she watched a nimbus of energy was given off from the giant lizard, almost like fire in nature.

But the disturbance in the Fade quickly quieted and the energy that the dragon had given off disappeared. The dragon was gone; in its place was a woman. Her hair was stark white and her was face creased with age, yet her coif was styled into the shape of the dragon’s horns and her eyes were a wicked yellow that exuded a timelessness that made her lined features look young. She wore feathered pauldrons and her corset-like coat was studded as armour would be. Her legs and arms were encased in steel, the design of the plate-mail also bearing similarity to the dragon’s form.

“Well, well. What have we here?” the dragon-woman asked almost rhetorically. “It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds, but now it seems they arrive in hordes!” Her face was calm, haughty almost. Sorana would have been immediately suspicious even if she had not just seen her transform from a dragon into a human.

The woman was standing between her and her staff; the Hawke cursed herself for her lack of foresight. “Impressive,” she spat, the loss of her sister turning what would have been a jovial expression almost toxic. “Where’d you learn how to turn into a dragon?”

“Perhaps I _am_ a dragon.” The old woman fired back. “If so, count yourself lucky; the smell of burning Darkspawn does nothing for the appetite.”

She turned around, as if to walk away. “You should know that if you intend to flee the Darkspawn, you are heading the wrong way.”

Carver seemed to finally recover from the woman’s shocking entry. “And you’re just going to leave us here?”

Sorana could almost hear the woman laughing, despite no such sound coming from her lips. “And why not?” She turned around to face the refugees again. “I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished! Who could perform such a feat?” Her tone carried the words as if they were in awe and wonder, taken from an age-old song, but it changed abruptly. “But now my curiosity is sated, and you are safe…for the moment. Is that not enough?”

Sorana was getting annoyed by the run-around and finally her self-restraint snapped. “Fine then! Be on your way, we’ll get away from them on our own.”

The woman levelled a _look_ at her. It was a look that would have turned most people into a quivering mess, but Sorana did not care. She had just lost her sister, whom _she_ had been responsible for. She would not allow some hag to toy with them in this manner.

The dragon-woman’s look turned calculating as she realised Hawke would not give way. “And where do you intend to go? The Darkspawn are everywhere, or soon will be.”

“Kirkwall…in the Free Marches.” Everyone was surprised as Leandra spoke, as she had not said a word since the Darkspawn had attacked Bethany, since she had called out her youngest daughter’s name, since she had mumbled a wordless lullaby to her unconscious eldest.

“Kirkwall?” Sorana questioned.

“We have family there,” Leandra responded quietly.

“My, that is quite the voyage you plan,” the stranger stated, her tone changed yet again. As if she had discovered gold in a riverbed.

Sorana wheeled back to her, almost hissing.“Any better suggestions? I hear the Deep Roads are vacant now.”

The acid sarcasm did nothing to discourage the dragon-woman. Instead she laughed, cackled. “Oh, you I like!” Her tone was oddly warm. “Hurtled into the chaos you fight…and the world will shake before you.”

Everyone looked at Sorana, having recently just witnessed her magic, the woman’s words seemed far more possible than some vague fortune-teller’s. The dragon lady walked away from them, looking as though she were deep in thought. “ _Is it fate or chance? I can never decide._ ” Sorana heard her mumble to herself.

Warning bells went off in the elder Hawke’s head. _Decide? Who is this woman to decide whether something is something or not? Particularly Fate and Chance._

But before Sorana could think further on the matter, the woman turned around, addressing them again. “It appears fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet.”

It seemed too convenient to Sorana, yet even drowning in grief as she was, she knew that they had little hope to get past the Darkspawn otherwise. “Fine, what do you want?”

Carver seemed to step back, hesitant. “Should we trust her? We don’t even know what she is.” He shot a questioning look at his sister.

“I know what she is,” Aveline stated, leaning over the prone form of Ser Wesley. _When had Wesley gone down?_ “The Witch of the Wilds.”

She shrugged. “Some call me that,” her tone uncaring. “Also Flemeth, Asha’bellanar. An ‘old hag who talks too much’!” She chuckled to herself at the last title. Her focus then shifted back to Sorana, fixing her with a piercing gaze. “Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the Darkspawn, in exchange for a single delivery, to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this, for a ‘Witch of the Wilds?’”

Sorana looked around to her companions, each of them tired beyond their years. They looked back, wordlessly communicating that this was their only hope. She straightened her back and clenched her fists. Mourning Bethany could wait. For now, the living mattered. She looked to the Witch of the Wilds, and nodded sharply.

This seemed to please Flemeth immeasurably. “There is a Dalish clan on Kirkwall’s outskirts, take this amulet to their Keeper, Merethari. Do this and any debt between us is paid in full.” She handed the item to Sorana, who swiftly slipped it into a pouch; anything that someone this powerful wanted delivered to repay any possible debt was more trouble than she would ever want to get involved in.

But then she turned to Aveline, still crouching over her husband, who coughed, the hacking sound tearing from his lungs. “Before I take you anywhere, however, there is another matter….”


	27. Arbitrium

“That woman is the Arl’s _wife_?” Celestine asked incredulously as Alistair shared what he knew.

“Yep, not to mention the reason for my eventually joining the Chantry.”

“Well, I suppose I should be grateful then. Apart from pitying Redcliffe Castle’s staff…if any are still alive.”

The former Templar looked at her confused, “Grateful? That’s the last sentiment I’d have thought of.”

“Wellll, she did in a roundabout way lead you to the Grey Wardens, which led you to the Circle which resulted in getting me free of that place.”

Alistair looked ahead, lost in thought as he contemplated what Celestine had said, almost colliding with a stalagmite. “Woah!” he exclaimed as he closely evaded it. “Maker I swear these caves have it out for me.”

The Circle mage close behind him giggled, “Just be grateful Morrigan is too far ahead to see you.”

This observation caused Alistair to try and regain his composure as quickly as possible, intent on not being made a fool of by the witch for the umpteenth time. They were silent for a short while as they walked through the dank corridor, the wet stonework occasionally giving way to natural cave. Sometimes these had ledges, the rest of the cave swallowed by the darkness of a place never touched by the sun; in these areas the crash of surf could be heard hundreds of yards below as Lake Calenhad’s waters found their way into hidden grottos and caves that riddled the cliffside.

Eventually they reached a section where the stonework looked to be far better maintained, with the occasional torch sconce attached to the wall. With safer footing and no longer the threat of walking into some natural formation looming, Alistair dared to speak again, his voice lower this time, sombre. “When you put it like that…then I owe Isolde a debt I can never hope to repay.”

“You’re already repaying her by firstly, risking your life for the sake of her realm and family, and secondly, putting up with her exclamations and accent,” Celestine responded, just as softly, her voice rich with a barely suppressed undercurrent of humour.

Alistair tried to contain his snort of amusement; he failed, garnering a look of annoyance from Morrigan as the sound echoed through the passage. Before the witch could say anything though, Elisa hissed loudly, “Oi, lovebirds, keep it down. I can see a door ahead and we don’t want to risk alerting any dead that may be in the vicinity.”

Alistair almost tripped over his own feet. Celestine had the urge to deny the Cousland’s statement, feeling the blush creep up her neck, but the noble had been right, there was a door ahead and she could not retort without risking their exposure. Instead she settled for a glare, which only  made Elisa’s grin grow broader. Morrigan looked amused by the blond girl’s comment, turning back to continue down the corridor with a smirk gracing her painted lips.

They stacked up on either side of the door, its aged planks looking to be petrifying under the mineral-rich dank conditions. Elisa pulled a vial containing a clear liquid from a pouch at her belt. Unstopping it, she carefully poured the substance over the calcified hinges. Celestine watched, fascinated, as the white rock that formed around the hinges started to smoke and hiss, crumbling away as the liquid seemed to eat it up.

At her questioning look Elisa grinned again. “Vinegar and concentration agent, I always keep some on hand for when I might need to deal with doors like these,” she whispered, her normally cheerful voice giving the impression of echoing droplets of water and howling gusts of wind.

Fortunately the door had not been fitted with a lock, and instead used a bolt that after some work, Elisa was able to shift back using one of the smaller daggers that she had hidden in the greaves of her boots.

“Hmmm,” Celestine hummed in amusement, receiving a questioning look from the noble. “Clunky they might be, but it would be far more difficult to hide a dagger in an Orlesian slipper.”

The rogue breathed a laugh at this, but waved for silence as she hefted the door, slowly pushing it open, the grind of its aged hinges echoing ominously through the hall that awaited them on the other end.

Fortunately it appeared that there was no one to hear the noise, the room before them bare except for a heap of mildewed straw and a rotting set of stocks. Alistair moved towards the front of the group, having drawn his weapons, and scanned the lichen-covered walls, finally ending his search by resting his gaze on the dark doorway that was the only other entrance to the chamber. Elisa walked the circumference of the room, one hand feeling the wall as she passed. Finally she stopped and looked at Celestine, as there were no hidden doors that she could discern.

“Quench the torches,” the mage instructed. “Let your eyes adjust to the gloom and then we’ll move on.”

They did as she bid, Alistair’s vision taking the longest to acclimatize. Celestine looked at Morrigan. “Turn into something discreet and scout ahead. If you find something we’d have difficulty dealing with, come back and let us know.”

The Witch nodded and vanished in a nimbus of olive-green energy, the sound of skittering retreating into the darkness.

By then they could make out that there was some light coming in through the far door; Elisa took the lead, testing the ground for any traps as they went.

They had been making their way through the dark corridors for perhaps two minutes when there came the distinct moan of an undead. Everyone froze as the sound echoed past them. Elisa vanished into the shadows, managing to - even in the colourless world of darkness-adjusted vision - melt into some part of the wall as if she were part of it.

Alistair took up the lead again, his shield arm tense and his fingers playing across the grip of his sword. Celestine hefted her staff, the oddly light metal a comfort even as she cursed her robes – the damnable attire had gotten in the way more than she could have imagined, living her life as a Warden. The Circle-issued robes had annoyed her during her stay there, but with every passing day she despised her wardrobe more and more vehemently.

The Grey Wardens inched forward, only two of the three there visible to the untrained eye. As they passed the threshold of the doorway from which the sound had come from they were greeted by another moan, this time accompanied by the shuffling of several sets of feet, and a thump, then a clang. Alistair looked to Celestine, who nodded, and he moved forward at a small trot.

They rounded a corner in the corridor, only to be confronted with a curious sight. The next room was lined with cells, thick iron bars set over the openings to the small alcoves. On the far side, light funnelled down a set of stairs colouring the grey world of darkness. There, five corpses were actively attacking one of the cell entrances, their attempts at breaking through the iron obviously futile despite their mindless insistence. Alistair charged forward as Elisa materialised behind one of the creatures, her long daggers plunging into its shoulders and tearing through its back. The creature fell with a groan just as Alistair swung his blade. It left a trail of condensation, painting its path towards its target. The force of the blow buried the sword halfway through the cadaver; the possessed corpse looked at it in confusion for a moment, before Alistair kicked it off, the rotting being falling to pieces under the force.

“Maker’s majestic moustache, what was _that?”_ he swore, and Celestine only grinned, a nimbus of mist and snow swirling around her one hand. Seeing her, he rolled his eyes, “Of course.”

“Come now, finish up what you started,” Elisa called from next to where she had brought down her second foe, one dagger having been buried in its neck and torn out sideways, while the other sliced into the chest, opening up the trunk.

Alistair politely motioned to Celestine. “Ladies first.”

She smiled back sweetly, mocking, “Why thank you my good Ser.”

She took the invitation earnestly though, as electricity coursed down her arms and along the staff. The current washed over the remaining undead, arcing from one to the next, growing in intensity. Finally the rotting bodies could no longer take the punishment meat, organs and rot expanding. Seconds later there was a wet bursting sound as the ripe cranial-neuro fluid boiled and the corpses’ eyes popped.

Alistair hopped back, dodging the steaming remains of an eye as it sailed past him to splatter against a wall, surprisingly nimbly for someone armoured in splint-mail as he was. “Eww, Celestine, a little warning next time?”

The Circle mage herself appeared not to have anticipated this result and retreated to a corner of the passage to empty the contents of her stomach. Elisa seemed unaffected, crouching over one of the electrocuted bodies, studying the charred and smoking face, or, well, what was left of it.

Celestine took a moment to recover, but eventually the retching noises subsided from her corner. Straightening up, she wiped a remnant of bile from her lip, a look of disgust on her now pale face as she tried to flick away the bit of half-digested food. “Note to self, too much lightning is bad for the head… and my diet.” Her tone carried a hint of bitter humour.

She breathed in, trying not to gag on the smell of weeks-dead walking corpses that had been flash-cooked. Smiling weakly, she looked from Elisa to Alistair. “So, let’s see what your unliving friends were after.”

The sarcastic-cheery look on her face fled when a weak voice called from the cell that the walking dead had been attacking. _“Maker, I’d know that voice anywhere...Celestine?”_

_No, it can’t be. Not him. Not here._

~o~

They sat together, piled up around the central mast of the merchant’s vessel in the hold. They weren’t the only ones cooped up in the dark space; there were several other refugees trying to get comfortable in the belly of the ship. Sorana had made sure that they got this spot though, the hatch above offering that extra bit of fresh air and the fact that they were in the centre of the vessel meant the sway was at its gentlest as the wooden hull cut through the waves.

The past day and following night had washed by them in a blur. They had all fallen asleep in the clearing where Bethany and Wesley had died and woken up just outside of Gwaren, the capital of Teyrn Loghain’s realm, bringing with it unhappy memories of what had transpired at Ostagar. They had stumbled through the city, passing by everything in their bid to get to the Harbour, where, after some haggling, they had managed to barter for a position on a merchant’s vessel heading for Kirkwall.

Leandra was leaning against Carver, quietly mourning the loss of her daughter. Aveline had sat by herself, staring out blankly after the death of her husband, her own hand having ended his life.

Sorana could not fathom what that had to have been like; to be sure, the Blight-sickness had taken hold of the Templar and would eventually have turned him into a mindless ghoul. But to be the one who wielded the dagger that would end your other half....  No, Sorana could not tell herself that she understood what the other woman was going through, despite the loss of her father and sister.

So she had sat down next to the flame-haired woman and wrapped an arm around her; the shift was subtle, but the corner of Sorana’s mouth twitched as she felt Aveline lean into her ever so slightly. Both of them had suffered loss upon loss at the hands of the Darkspawn, and now they could only hope that by heading towards a new beginning, things would begin to look better.

_ Maker, keep my cousin safe or I’ll make what the Magisters did seem like a quaint walk in the park. _


	28. Revelabit

“Land, ho!” The call drifted down on the salty breeze from the lookout’s post - crow’s nest - Sorana’s mind corrected, trying to get comfortable with the seafaring expressions used.

She had taken to trying to assist on board, looking for something, anything to keep the boredom - and the grief - at bay. The gruff sailors had at first laughed at the landlubber woman’s flailing, but soon accepted her among them as she practiced tying knots, clambered through the rigging, and even scrubbed the deck. It had not hurt that Leandra started helping in the galley, the quality of meals rising by a significant margin as the older woman put to use the tricks she had picked up having to make do while on the run with an apostate, and secretly grateful for the distraction from thoughts of Bethany.

Sorana finished tying the knot she had been working on and moved to the prow. It wasn’t a magnificent galleon as militaries and the elite of society boasted; it was a smaller vessel, with just the right amount of space to carry enough wares to make a profit running the trade routes of the Waking Sea.

She moved along the bowsprit until she was balancing over the water, using the rigging to hold herself in place as the catamaran-hulled ship glided over the surface. She breathed in the salty air, relishing the freshness as the strong ocean winds moistened her face with spray from the waves.  It had taken her a day to get used to the rolling sway, the constant motion having forced most of the refugees to empty the contents of their stomachs over the side of the ship. But now that she had acclimatized, she’d never felt as free – the wind pulling at the sails freed her from any ties to Ferelden and the memories that lingered there, the sea air soothed the hurt, a balm as the ocean’s otherworldliness made the happenings of the past few weeks seem a bad dream, though every time she wanted to banish it to the back of her subconscious as such, there would be the glaring reminder that there was now one less of them. She would never again feel the soft arms of her sister welcoming her home. Never again hear the peal of her laughter as she found amusement in another trivial thing that annoyed Carver. Never again the questions on magic, and the slightly jealous tone at how easily the Fade bended to the elder Hawke’s will. Never again....

Shaking the haunting thoughts from her mind, she looked out over the waves as the dark splotch on the horizon grew; the Free Marches. Her ancestral land awaited her there – Kirkwall. She wondered what it was like, the home of her mother. Part of her was nervous…she’d heard rumours of the Circle there on her travels as a mercenary, none of them good; even Bethany had heard of it in the Lothering Chantry, which caused some minor trepidation among the Hawkes. But from what her mother had told her, the Amells were a family of no small means. Sorana had never pictured herself as anything more than part of the common folk, so the prospect of living with or even as nobility sent her imagination soaring down roads it had never dared to tread.

As the landscape on the horizon became more and more distinct, Hawke came to a resolution. When  they arrived in Kirkwall, her family would not be forced to leave their home again as they always had in the past. They would set down roots, and she would protect her own, for little Beth; she would not allow her family to go through another loss as that.

~o~

 

“Maker, I’d know that voice anywhere...Celestine?” Jowan’s voice came from in between the bars of the cell the undead had been trying to get through, impossibly hopeful.

Celestine froze, her mind almost shutting down as it tried to process that the person in the cell might be her former life-long companion and friend, the former life-long companion and friend that had betrayed her trust and used blood magic on her.

At first she felt overjoyed at being able to see him again, to tell him about all the wonders she’d seen outside the Circle, to cry on his shoulder about the events at Ostagar, to have him laugh at her disgust with the undead. But the feeling soon passed, snuffed out by the growing flame of anger. He had lied to her, said he had not used blood magic and then had the gall to use it on her as well! He had, after all their years of mutual support, basically thrown her to the hounds in a bid to save his own neck. What broke her restraint was that he had abandoned Lily as well; after all his professions of love, he had left the poor, defenceless, ignorant girl behind at the mercy of the templars.

“Jowan?” the word forced through her teeth, tight as she tried to rein herself in.

“Thank Andraste it’s you! I thought I would die in here.” He had struggled to pull himself up by the bars of the cell, his form thin from obvious lack of nourishment.

“Tina, you know this man?” Elisa asked, unsure whether to be repulsed by the state of Jowan, or concerned.

Celestine did not answer the question; instead she moved towards the cell in one quick motion, grabbing the front of the starved mage’s robes and pulling him to the bars so that his face crashed against them, which rang softly at the impact, accompanied by a small crack and a whimper.

The anger from a moment before blossomed into fury. “You betrayed Lily and me! Left us to rot with the Templars!”

“Tina….” Alistair started, placing a cautious hand on her shoulder.

“No! This bastard is the reason the sweetest of Chantry sisters was sent to Aonar! Plus he almost got me made Tranquil!” she barked over her shoulder at the more senior Warden.

She turned back to the unfortunate man in her grip. “Tell me _Jowan_ , did you ever care for her? Did you ever care for me?” Her anger was like a pilot flame, low, but intense. “Were all those years of tagging along part of some great scheme to break out of the Circle? Was it all a game?”

“Maker, Celestine...please...stop!”

The Warden mage only laughed, a cold sound that chilled her companions; Morrigan, who had just returned to her human form, shifted uncomfortably, the sound reminding her too much of one very much familiar.

“Oh? You want me to stop? Like you stopped to think about the consequences about using blood magic? I think not.”

Jowan whimpered again, trying to push away from the bars, where Celestine’s grip on his robes had begun to smoulder and the metal under her other hand glow as she unconsciously funneled her rage out.

Celestine felt a cool cascade wash over her it pulled at her like a heavy current of water would;something within her was picked up by the current like flotsam and carried away. She blinked, surprised. The anger from moments before was gone, replaced with a mild sense of confusion and annoyance.

Jowan managed to struggle out of her grip, backing against the far wall of the cell with wide, fearful eyes. “Maker preserve me its true; t-they were right all along,” he mumbled to himself.

Celestine looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Jowan?”

“Stay away!” the blood mage whimpered from the corner he had backed into.

The Warden turned around to look at her companions, gaze questioning. Morrigan was giving Alistair a disgusted look, who was down on a knee, panting heavily. He smiled weakly at Celestine and she saw his brow was beaded with sweat. Elisa,on the other hand, was giving her a cold, calculating stare.

“What…” Celestine started, unsure of what to ask.

Elisa gave a pointed look towards where Jowan was mumbling to himself; that was when Celestine noticed that one hand was still on the bar of the cell door. She gasped when she saw how the metal had been molded by her tight grip, the iron having softened enough for even her to be able to form it.

“No…not again.”

She collapsed to the floor, legs giving out under the weight of fear that crashed down over her, eyes distant as images of burnt corpses all around flashed before her eyes, the smoking remains of scorched grass sweetening the air just as the scent of flesh marred it.

Alistair moved cautiously towards her prone form, unsure exactly of how to approach. He had barely understood what had happened, only that the air around them had dried up and  a malicious sensation rolled off from Celestine in waves, so he had used a Silence. The Templar ability took a great deal of energy to execute, but it had blocked out whatever had been affecting the mage , so he felt it was energy worth spending. Awkwardly, he put a hand on her shoulder, every fibre of his being urging him to console her, but he didn’t know where to start.

Elisa made an irritated sound and pushed past him; kneeling down next to Celestine she hugged her tightly, then pushed her away again so she could look into the mage’s blue eyes.

“Tina, I don’t know what in the Void just happened, but you need to tell us what’s going on,” she said, voice low. She interrupted as she saw that the mage wanted to say something. “No, not now. First we have to get rid of all the lively cadavers, then we can talk. Until then we need you to carry on as normal. Okay?” She looked at Celestine, grey eyes intense. When the mage nodded, she acknowledged it by mirroring the gesture.

“Alistair, will you help her? I feel I need to have a little chat with this ‘Jowan,’” Elisa asked. Facing Morrigan she continued, “When Tina’s feeling better you can fill us in on what you saw.”

The Witch nodded, moving out of the way as Alistair half-carried Celestine back from where they had come from. Jowan made an almost mouse-like squeaking noise as he tried to back away further from the cell door, which Elisa started trying to unlock with her set of picks. Morrigan leaned back against the far wall of the corridor, raven-like eyes curiously observing the Noble-born rogue.

Fingers that should have been soft from living a life where servants were at her beck and call, were instead rough from years of handling daggers, and doing the work of a thief. Despite the callouses they moved deftly, sensing the vibrations of the tumblers as her picks played at the sensitive components. Elisa closed her eyes, feeling the give and resistance as the brass mechanism let itself be bypassed, one pin at a time. Finally she felt her pins slide through unhindered and she twisted, unlocking the gate.

“Now, Jowan, was it?” She said, making it sound like she were simply asking about the weather as she pushed open the heavy barred gate aside, “why don’t you tell us why you’re so afraid of our glorious leader?”

The rogue stalked over to the cowering filth-covered man, his robes where Celestine had gripped them giving off the acrid stench of burnt fabric. She stopped once she was looming over his groveling form.

“P-please. Just keep her away! There had always been rumours about her at the Circle, that she’s a monster! An abomination! Fade-touched!

Elisa could swear she _heard_ Morrigan’s blink at that as she scoffed, “‘Tis a superstition of the grossest sort, little man.”

It looked like he tried to press himself even further into the corner at the Witch’s tone at which Elisa shook her head, “stand up you whimpering fool, and explain.” She gripped him by the collar of his robes and pulled him up forcefully, then pushing him against the moist stone wall.

“It’s true!” his hands roaming the rock behind him as if searching for an escape. “You saw it! I never saw that in all the years we were together at the Circle, she changed. There’s no way she has that power at her fingers and can still be human. She used to be the only one I could talk to, before...” He suddenly blanched. “Oh no….”

“Spit it out man, these half-finished sentences are helping nothing!” Elisa stated, annoyed, she was finding the urge to tap her foot very hard to resist.

“When I escaped the Circle I used a minor spirit eradicating spell. On most people it would just temporarily knock them unconscious as their connection to the fade was dampened. If there were any mental barriers in Celestine’s mind that were drawing from the fade to remain in place… that might have knocked them out of place.”

“Pff, as if a weakling such as you could have accomplished such a feat,” Morrigan scoffed from her position. It looked like he wanted to contradict her, but her eyes cowed any response he might have had. “Regardless,” the Witch continued, “if any such barriers were in place they would have been removed by the Joining.”

Elisa raised a brow as she looked over her shoulder at the other woman, “you know of the Joining?”

“Enough to know that it involves blood magic, as well as linking you all to the Darkspawn and by extension the Archdemon.” When the only reaction that she got was an even higher raised brow she explained further, “My hag mother made sure I knew what I was to expect.”

Seemingly satisfied with this Elisa nodded, turning back to Jowan. “Now, since it’s been established that you might even be innocent when it comes to our friend, you are most definitely not innocent when it comes to using blood magic, or getting aforementioned friend into danger. So please assume your margin to be small to none.” She grinned at him, a predatory thing that showed her teeth. “Before we leave you here, all safe and cozy, please do share what the blazes is happening in this Castle.”


	29. Cantet Vigilate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the mean time...

Morrigan watched the Wardens as they made their way through the bowels of Redcliffe Castle, clearing it of undead as they went. Despite not having all of their heavy-hitters, they made good progress through the dark passages with the two mages supporting the two melee fighters.

The Warden – Celestine -seemed to have recovered from her earlier ordeal. Morrigan felt she should have been sneering in disdain at the other mage’s lack of control, at her recklessness, but instead she felt curiosity underlined by a worming fear – a preposterous thing, something she would never admit to anyone, yet, there it was.

She’d been trained in the occult and arcane since her earliest memories; her life had been steeped in knowing the unknown, understanding the enigma, thirsting for knowledge. The old adage was true after all – knowledge was power – and power was a means to survival. The Wilds had taught her many things: how to hunt, how to fight, how to hide, how to flee, but that was ever at the crux, to survive. So Morrigan pursued that which she did not comprehend with steely resolve and razor sharp cunning; why else would she have agreed to her mother’s foolish request?

Already it was turning out to be a worthwhile decision; these Wardens were a shrewd bunch, despite their youth and despite how much she disagreed with some of their decisions. There was an undercurrent of pragmatic wisdom in everything they did – even the fool Alistair was more than he made out to be, his entire character a defence mechanism. While strongly contrasting hers, it followed its own rules of survival, something she could respect, even as she attacked it; either she would break him, or he would become so assured of himself that not even the most powerful demons would be able to sway him.

Elisa and Erik were interesting to say the least, educated minds hiding behind facades of boisterousness and passivity. But everything they did held an undercurrent of desperation, a need to hold onto one another, a need to cling to what little they had left from whatever world-shattering event had brought them to the Grey Wardens. Through it all shimmered a knowing only gained through first-hand experience; these two did everything with a calculating care that hinted towards their knowledge of what could happen, if everything went wrong. Their reaction to what had happened at Ostagar was testament to that; it was  almost as if they expected it.

Morrigan wondered how they would fare without each other – it was the only weakness she could pick up; their reliance on one another was far too great, something to be exploited. She toyed with ideas on how to do something about this, that was, if she were to do something about it. She only needed Erik, but it would probably be best if Elisa remained, to provide that selflessness factor that would no doubt come into play once they confronted the Archdemon, much like with Alistair and Celestine. Best leave nothing to chance.

Ah, Celestine. Somehow things always came back to her. The girl was the only other mage of considerable power the witch had ever met, barring herself and her mother. The way she wielded the elements was nothing short of astounding; she’d been watching, studying for a while now. While her casting might at times have seemed casual or uncontrolled, Morrigan felt how the Veil was turned into an iron vice by the young woman’s mind. It was almost as though she were unable to let the Fade flow through her without restraint. Even when she had seemingly lost control before the blood mage in the cell earlier, there had been a subconscious brace that held back her power. She had proposed the idea of a mental ward to the mundanes to assuage them, but the truth was there was no such thing. At least not unless it were an item that had been specifically enchanted to assist in such a process; even then the mage would need to focus some part of themselves for that to work. The blood mage had been a fool in every sense of the word - to do what she’d pieced together, to come up with the theory that he had – his understanding of magic was clearly very limited – the only defence a mage could ever truly rely on was the fortitude of her own willpower.

Morrigan had been angered by Alistair’s Silence, for stopping the events from playing out as much as blocking her connection to the Fade, but in retrospect it would have harmed Celestine in the long run had she killed the prisoner, and she was far too interesting for Morrigan to want to see her come to harm. . .just yet.

The group was silent as it moved through Redcliffe Castle, the only sounds from the passages they moved through were the metallic ring of weapons cutting through rotting limbs and the roar of entropic and primal magics.

~o~

Sorana’s eyes grew wide as they drew nearer to Kirkwall’s harbour entrance. She had not thought there would be much left in this world that could impress her. She’d been wrong. Steep walls of smooth stone cut out of the mountain’s living rock welcomed them. Two gigantic sculptures of bronze stood sentinel on either side of the only path that would allow for entry into the former Tevinter city’s docks. They were slaves, faces forever buried in hands with  nothing in the world to hope for. From their necks hung gigantic chains, linked to a gatehouse that doubled as a lighthouse. These could no doubt be dropped into the water, blocking off the harbour entrance. There was a reason Kirkwall had earned its moniker. The remnants of its former status as a Tevinter slave-trade hub were as effective in practice as they were in symbolism.

The ship was thrown into shadow as it passed between the statues, the walls of stone blocking out the sun. The eldest Hawke shuddered involuntarily as the temperature plummeted, rubbing her bare arms while the vessel drifted towards the other side of the cleft through the stone.

The sight that greeted them seemed intent on impressing one thing: despair. The city was carved out of the mountains surrounding the sea, much like the gates. Adorning the ascending rows of buildings and streets were more bronze representations of slaves, their hands either raised in silent eternal pleas, or used to cover their faces. Large two-faced representations of Wardens with two sets of arms were dotted around buildings that wept suppression and authority from their very stones.

Sorana reached out and gripped the nearest rigging, hand clenching around the fibrous rope. She felt a large hand come to rest on her shoulder and jerked around, coming face-to-chest with the first mate of the vessel, his dark Rivaini skin contrasting sharply with his deep red tunic. “Aye lass, welcome to the City of Chains. Now you know what it felt like for the slaves of old. There is no hope here.”

Sorana slowly turned back to face the approaching docks, a peculiar odour and the cry of gulls already apparent. Her eyes hardened as she clenched her jaw. _Well, ‘City of Chains,’ how do you feel about one of your own coming home?_

~o~

Erik had walked back down into the village from the windmill, Leliana in tow, after he had congratulated the knights for their part in the defence. Ser Perth and the others remained at their station in case the undead made an appearance again. Sten took the dogs either to hunt, scout, or patrol, along the borders of the village, the Qunari rarely inclined to speak.

Leliana split off when he passed the inn, stating that she wanted to check on the barmaid, who’d been very helpful in procuring supplies for them once Elisa had strong-armed the man into assisting in the fight the previous night.

Erik looked around; there were people scattered about the village, but without the bustle that would have been normal for such a place. Instead, most were whispering to one another, staring off into space, or rocking quietly in some corner. It was all too familiar…nobody ever took fighting against the undead well – against the remains of former friends, family – not soldiers, and definitely not mere villagers.

He eventually made it to the Chantry where most of the fighting had taken place. There were still smouldering pyres near the lake-shore where the deceased’s remains had been given their last rites.

“Sister – look! It’s the man I told you about.”

“Shush Bevin, don’t disturb the Warden, he and his friends saved our lives.”

Erik smiled to himself as he turned towards the boy and his older sister; it seemed that some still had the wherewithal to hope, even in the aftermath of such trials.

“Bevin, is it? I believe I still have something of yours.” he commented, unbuckling the ancient elvhen sword he had used the previous night, its metal still strangely warm.

~o~

Samantha looked on as the First Enchanter drew from the pool of Lyrium, the liquid mineral glowing brightly. She noted its distinct scent – the air after a lightning strike. It was a large quantity; the Templars would have noticed its absence from the stores. If they were not already aware that it had been the First Enchanter who had collected it, they would surely be searching the tower for whom it had been.

The older man took no notice of Samantha, rarely anyone did. It was not that she was plain, quite the opposite in fact, but Tranquility drained her features of life and vibrancy. There was no energy, merely a state of being. She drifted, another cog in the machine that was the Formari.

The former noble, former mage, watched dispassionately as the glowing of the lyrium increased. Observed how the ethereal spirit-energy of the Fade followed after the mage leader’s will. She saw the large rat in its cage – the animal twitched at the first gentle caress of magic – then it spasmed, toppling over.

The First Enchanter sighed heavily, rubbing his temples and looking at the now-dead rodent. Without turning,he instructed: “Note three-hundred and fourteen: despite adequate power and willing subject, specimen twenty failed. It seems forceful application of spirits results in either subject turning into a demon, or both subject and specimen ending up deceased. Application to the Amgarrak Theory remains unviable.”

Samantha looked up from the parchment she’d been writing on as a loud hammering came from the door. The First Enchanter sighed before moving to unbolt the portal to his laboratory.


	30. Adventu

Whimpered. That was what she had done, _whimpered_. Emitting the weak sound, she had curled in on herself and given up, the events of the past few weeks finally overwhelming her.

It had all happened quickly at first, starting with screams from the royal wing which only grew in number as it spread through the rest of the castle. Leading the massacre were empty suits of armour, undying automatons that cut down knight, man-at-arms, noble and servant alike. But what followed after was even worse – those killed rising again, wounds still leaking blood and fluids.

Velana wasn’t sure how she had made it through that night; it seemed the Maker had smiled upon her when the Arlessa sent her to the kitchen for refreshments. But then the suits of armour came and her body jumped into action of its own accord, allowing her to push and shove her way through the panicking kitchen staff as the killing commenced behind her.

Once more it seemed the Maker smiled on her when the room she had locked herself in happened to be the larder, otherwise she would not have been able to survive past the first week. But it had been a long time since then, and there was nothing in the dark room for her to occupy herself with as she shifted from terror at the sound of sabatons or shuffling feet, to relief so intense it was euphoric when the sounds passed by her hiding place.

At one point, she had heard hurried footsteps outside, ending on the other side of her door. This was followed by someone trying to pull the lever and she could hear swearing as it refused to give entry to whoever was there. She had almost conquered her fear and started to edge towards the only thing between her and the rest of the world to see who it was when she heard a panicked “No! Please!” from the other side, followed by something thudding into the solid wood.

The crack below the door darkened entirely as something obstructed it, and moments later a pool of warm liquid crept in. Velana accidentally left a hand in its path and several fingers had gotten wet, she’d barely suppressed a scream and scampered back to her far corner to quiver, the liquid on her hand giving off an unmistakable iron tang.

Later – it could have been an hour, or a day, the darkness warping her sense of time – there was a shuffling at the door and then whatever was blocking the light from coming through the crack at the bottom was removed, a pair of shuffling footfalls receding down the corridor outside. Velana did not want to think what that could have meant.

So she stayed, trapped in a room with no light and a slowly diminishing supply of food. At some point her mind took flight, trapped in this castle of nightmare with terror and adrenaline coursing through her almost all the time until she was too spent to do anything but lie in her corner on a pile of empty sacks, barely managing to nourish herself from what was stored in the room beyond what had not already spoilt due to the passing of time.

She stared off into the blackness blindly, strangely detached from herself, as she thought about when her family first got news of the Arl’s new wife and how she would need a maid. Her father had been so excited at the prospect of his daughter being able to serve in the court, and had done his best to get her the position. His craftsmanship was nothing to scoff at and he had regularly been commissioned by the gentry, so when the Arlessa arrived, Velana had been given the position. Her father had been so proud; she prayed he was yet safe.

Her blurred sense of time meant she had no idea how long she had been trapped in the dark hole when she heard new sounds. There was the shuffle of undead feet as ever, but this time it was more harried, accompanied by groans that betrayed how far gone the lungs and vocal chords of the bodies were. The first new sound was the clang of something metallic, followed by a noise similar to an overripe fruit getting cut, and a crunch. Then came a low hum that set the hair on her arms on edge, and there was a sharp crack that reverberated through the hall. The loud noise was followed by an almost deafening silence as the echoes of the crack died down.

Velana had no idea what had happened; had that which had started all of this finally come down to get her? There was a noise at the door as something tried to open it, then a metallic scratching at the lock followed by a click. She curled up in the corner, whimpering, as the room was bathed in brightness from the outside, blinding her light-starved eyes. _Surely this is the end._

~o~

It felt odd, standing upon solid ground again after two weeks of rolling deck; it gave Sorana some insight as to why sailors walked the way they did, feet always rolling across the floor to meet it, moving or not. They had left the ship, bidding the crew farewell with sincere gratitude. While the seamen had originally balked at having to transport the refugees, desperate and fearful as they were, the Hawkes had won them over with their willingness to assist. No one would turn down a hand that paid to be allowed to be of service, no matter how short the time. Abiyah, the first mate, had even half-jokingly offered Hawke a position as part of the crew, but she had declined, stating that after what they had gone through, her place was with her family.

They were directed to dock at a fortress called the Gallows, the city having locked down the port to control the influx of refugees from the Blight. The place oozed oppression, with reliefs and sculptures of begging slaves reaching out away from the walls, as if asking any who passed to free them from their suffering. The eldest Hawke wondered what had inspired the city’s Tevinter builders to include those statues in their design and what had driven the later Orlesian and Marcher occupants to keep them. Personally, she had to suppress the urge to treat each one to a superheated fireball.

Even here though, the guards were having trouble keeping the refugees back. There was a line of armoured men blocking off the entrance any deeper into the Gallows. Sorana frowned,realising that they had yet more difficulties to work through.

“It doesn’t look like they’re letting anyone into the city,” Aveline said, putting voice to Hawke’s thoughts.

“What? They can’t do that, not after all we’ve been through!” Leandra despaired.

Carver looked at the other refugees, the crowd at the guards gradually growing as more from the ships joined to see what their future would hold. “Maybe we should take Abiyah up on his offer? If only to get to a city that’s not flooded with refugees.”

“No,” Leandra stated, emotion creeping into her voice. “This was my home, we had an estate here…,” She drifted off, the events of the previous few months making it impossible to recall the almost carefree time she had spent in Kirkwall as a youth.

Aveline sympathised with the older woman and scanned the crowd again. “The other guards seem to be reporting to that one - maybe we should try speaking with him?”

Sorana nodded, agreeing, and led the way towards the crowd. The people were packed rather tightly, so she had to resort to some force to push them apart. Some looked as if they would complain at her rude passage, but stopped themselves once they saw the group’s armour and sheathed weapons.

The eldest Hawke stopped short in front of the man Aveline had pointed out earlier, him being one of the few guards that wasn’t wearing his helmet at the time, revealing his cropped sandy blonde hair and young, if weary, features. He pressed his fingers to his temple and breathed in deeply upon seeing the group.

“Look, just because you can push through a bunch of people doesn’t mean we’ll let you into the city. We already have enough poor people of our own without you refugees piling up in front of our gates.” His voice was strained, as if repeating the same thing for the hundredth time.

“So it’s true?” Aveline queried, “you’re not letting anyone into the city?”

“Yes, and if I’d’ve had my way we’d just bar the gates on all refugees. But, some have legitimate business here, so Knight-Commander Meredith is having everyone screened before we’re allowed to let you enter or turn you away.”

Sorana sensed as her gut seemed to plummet once more, a sensation that was becoming all too familiar: _Knight-Commander…_. “That’s a Templar title; are you taking orders from this Meredith?”

“Yes, well…no,” the sandy-haired guard replied. “We don’t report to her, but she’s the power here. Not even the Viscount tries to go against anything she says. Anyway, if you want in, that’s none of my business; go talk to Captain Ewald, in the courtyard. I’m just here to make sure you refuse don’t start climbing the walls.”

Hawke nodded and moved past the man into the dark passageway ahead; time to see what it would take for them to get into the city.

~o~

Celestine was terrified as they fought through the corridors or Redcliffe. Not of their foe, no – while the undead may have been deeply unsettling she had been immersed in the world of magic far too long to have a fear of them. They were merely spirits of rage, hunger or sloth that had either possessed corpses or been forced into them; the psychological threat was restricted to how squeamish one was. No, she was terrified of herself.

Never had she been as grateful that Alistair received the training he had; _surely the Maker had planned it?_ She had lost control, her anger at Jowan for his betrayal overwhelming her restraint. She could almost hear the booming laughter of a demon of rage as she fed its essence, the funnel of power that was her potential helping it manifest.

It must have been a strong Rage demon to have had the effect it did, but that did not diminish the fact that it was indeed _rage_ – not desire, or pride, or one of the other more powerful aspects; no, it had been rage. That point made her wonder how she would fare in the face of one of the other types; after all, the Pride – _Veeshaz_ , Torpor had called it, had set its sights on her during her Harrowing.

Even after the moment was sufficiently past, she made sure to let only the barest hints of the Fade trickle through into her spells, for fear of something else affecting her. She would have preferred to stop casting altogether, but knew it would only have weakened her over time. She recalled the lessons in discipline she had undergone with the First Enchanter, to exert her power only when it was restrained by the iron fist of her will.

No. She would not let herself be caught in such a manner again, and kept the warped bars of Jowan’s cell as an image fixed into her mind, combined with the scent of burning grass and flesh – a whole caravan flash-immolated.

In a sense, she was grateful for the undead. Their presence allowed her the opportunity to vent her frustration with herself, lightning humming through her staff and limbs as it arced between foes. Flames rippled with hunger as they consumed recently deceased bones.

They had just finished off another group of shambling corpses in their path when Celestine felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder. She turned to meet the ice-blue eyes of Elisa. The rogue pointed to a door on the far side of the corridor, a large bloodstain colouring the old wood, and a dry pool of blood having congealed at its base. One of the castle staff had died trying to enter that chamber.

The former Circle mage nodded, and Elisa moved towards the door, first testing whether it would open of its own accord. When it did not, she drew out her lockpicks and set to work.

 

 


	31. Potestas Configatur

Elisa looked back at Celestine as she roamed out ahead of the group. The mage’s demeanour had shifted from how it had been. While she had always been serious when the situation demanded it, their party leader had also had a sly sense of humour that snuck out to tease at the most subtle opportunities. But whatever had happened in the dungeon with the blood mage had rattled her, and instead of showing this by being reluctant, or hesitant, it manifested in the firm set of her jaw, the controlled ferocity of her spells. The Cousland was sure she could draw perfectly straight lines along the edges of the areas where the Amell’s spells were funnelled.

It was in stark contrast to Morrigan’s casting, which instead of a focused expression had a wild nature. She had to hide a grin at the observation, how the mages’ magics betrayed their character far more than anything else, something the rogue was glad to discover, given her role. Where Celestine was focused release, trying to hold back something far too great, allowing it to only take the routes she channelled it through, Morrigan’s was wild and beautiful, teasing the edges of what it was and was not allowed to do.

The black clouds of the witch’s spells coiled around their victims in a fashion that was almost sexual: _come hither, give us your all, you won’t regret it. We can end your poor existence; make you part of something glorious._ Part of Elisa wondered if Morrigan had command over a desire demon somewhere, whose influence she could wield as a weapon – even her casting was reminiscent of some sensual dance, exotic to those not of the Wilds.

They finally made it outside into the castle courtyard after what seemed ages of working through the underground passages of the keep. It was a relief to see the sun again after all the claustrophobic corridors. The entire journey had been far too depressing, with Celestine’s issue manifesting in addition to all the dead. They had been travelling through the castle for some time and of all the staff they had only encountered one living soul? Elisa prayed to the Maker that at least some of the men-at-arms would still be holed up somewhere, since she knew most of Redcliffe’s knights were spread far and wide across the country. It would be foolishness to stand against Loghain without any men at their side.

A cursory scan of the courtyard revealed it to be empty of obvious threats. The walking dead were not known for their subtlety, so she turned around to give the rest of the party the all clear. She had just waved at Alistair that they could follow her up the stairwell out of the cellar they had cleared, when what felt like a giant hand gripped her, invisible fingers curling around her shoulders and ribs.

Then all she felt was an odd weightlessness as her feet left the ground and wind whistled by her ears, pushing loose strands of hair into her face. Reflex had her gripping her daggers immediately, readying for when she hit the ground so she could bounce up and counter whatever had assaulted her. But her feet never touched the ground, instead there was a sharp pain in her back. Elisa blinked, confusion written on her features as she looked at the blackened runed blade growing out of the centre of her torso.

~o~

Erik was wandering along where Lake Calenhad met Redcliffe village, the water gently lapping against the red clay of the shore. It was almost too serene, considering that out of these same waters the night before, there had risen the possessed bodies of men, women, and children, weeks dead, yet still moving, algae and other underwater growths clinging to them. The memory sent a shudder down Erik’s spine, it was all too reminiscent of a prior experience.

He had been so far adrift in memories that when a gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder his entire body stiffened, ready to leap into action. This seemed to elicit a coy giggle from whoever was behind him.

“So the Champion can indeed be caught unawares, what an honour for _me_ to have made that discovery.”

Erik let forth a breathy chuckle. “It is one my sister made all too long ago.”

“So I can imagine; she seems surprisingly wily for one of her heritage.”

“My mother’s to blame for that; she fought to end the Orlesian oppression, but I suppose considering who my sister is, she would have found a way to learn the arts of subtlety even without our mother’s guidance.” Erik’s voice deepened with emotion at the mention of his mother. He cleared his throat awkwardly in an attempt to disguise it.

The Chantry sister somehow managed to pick up on his discomfort and diverted the topic to another direction. “So, any particular reason I find you out here, all alone? We cannot be sure that the undead are all gone, no?”

Erik’s face turned grim. “No, but I find myself recalling another battle. One far too similar to this than would have been to my liking.”

“Oh? Would you be willing to share this tale?”

Erik sighed as he moved towards the village’s dock and sat down at the end of a quay. “I suppose we’ve been silent about it for long enough.” He breathed in deeply, readying himself. “The Battle of Red Tide, a day that many a Highever soldier wishes to forget, if they are still alive, I suppose.” He looked out over Lake Calenhad and its gentle wavelets as Leliana moved to sit down beside him, sincere interest written across her beautiful features.

~

The battle had been going well; Highever’s troops had had the advantage from their position on the cliffs of the Storm Coast. Fortunately they had been blessed with clear weather that day fighting in the rain was a nightmare and the threat of lightning would have been too high for them to be able to use archers as support from the high ground.

Nobody was entirely sure where the raiders had come from, though, and they had been harassing the coast of Ferelden for the better part of a year. Fortune had smiled on the Couslands when there was a tipoff as to where the raiders would land next.

Erik was watching as his father’s troops engaged the enemy, Fergus’ archers attacking from the high ground as the rogues wove between the more bulky soldiers, hamstringing here, stabbing a kidney there or running a blade across a throat elsewhere.

It seemed the raiders weren’t as organised as the Ferelden troops, but they had surprisingly large numbers – at least a dozen longships had beached and offloaded men into the ankle-deep water.

It looked as though the battle had already been won without the involvement of the auxiliaries, the Teyrn’s soldiers slowly pushing the foe into the waters from where they had emerged. Erik thought that he and his sister might not even have been needed when a horn sounded from the raider’s ranks. It was an ominous noise that had Alfonse jumping up from where he lay against a tree, whining.

“That…doesn’t sound like a call to retreat,” Gilmore said from where he was standing next to Erik.

“No, it does not,” Erik agreed.

Elisa had a forced smirk on her lips. “As ominous as a notification that Aunt Lucinda is coming for a visit?”

“No, never that ominous,” Erik fired back, even as the hair on the back of his neck stood on edge. “Hold on, what are those five there doing?”

The other two looked to where the blond man had pointed; breaking off from the rest of the raiders, five dark figures clambered onto one of the landing ships within their lines. The air seemed to distort around them momentarily, before a violet wave ripped forth from their position. It seemed not to discriminate who it hit, throwing both raiders and Fereldens away. The force must have been tremendous as the two Couslands and the squire saw men flung several meters into the air as if they were toys.

“Maker, they have mages, and I doubt these are the nice type,” Gilmore stated.

Elisa scanned the coast. “Father’s standard bearers are still a good distance from that spell’s area of effect, but those will now make him a target.”

“Yes,” Erik agreed, “seems we’ll still be needed today.”

Turning around he bellowed, “Alright men form up – looks like we’ve a tide to turn.”

~

“Of course it would have been too easy, had it only been simple mages. No, they had been blood mages,” Erik continued, a humourless laugh interrupting his story.

“ _Maleficar?_ Maker preserve us, how did you endure?” Leliana asked, eyes wide. She’d had dealings with Circle mages and apostates alike, but never had she encountered a blood mage.

“We persevered, but not easily.  The spell that they first used came with the addition of demon possession for any of the dead on the field. What raiders survived the spell promptly took their life summoning demons.  The struggle to keep the terrified auxiliaries in line rather than dropping their weapons and running was probably harder than killing the Fade-trash. We managed, won, in spite of all of that.  The leader of their mages let himself be possessed by a pride demon - we only managed to get it down because Elisa scaled up its back and drove both of her daggers into its eyes.”

“I suppose I should be grateful then, that we have her with us in the event that a pride demon ever confronts us, no?” Leliana joked, the subtle mirth of her tone bringing a weak smile to Erik’s lips after his morose tale.

“I’m not sure how I would be able to manage had she not made it out of Highever, or through the Joining.” Just as the words left his lips a terrible feeling passed through him, an ache in his chest the like of which he had never known.

Erik scrambled to his feet, surprising Leliana into doing the same. “What? What is it? Darkspawn?” she asked, tense.

“No, I think…I think something’s happened to my sister.” The look he gave her almost brought tears to the former Chantry sister’s eyes, the fear and worry made her want to wrap her arms around him and tell him everything would be alright. But no, that was not what he needed. “Let’s get Sten and the dogs, pick up the knights and head to the castle. We may be able to find out what’s happening.” Her Orlesian accent became stronger as her emotions buffeted against the defence of her façade.

Erik nodded sharply, marching off to fetch Redcliffe’s knights from their post at the windmill while Leliana ran to fetch their Qunari and canine companions.

 

 


	32. Potestas Corpus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one had to go through some heavy cleaning before it was presentable. All hail the guru.
> 
> I've also been making some illustrations for previous chapters, I believe I have 3 up so far.

Celestine had just spotted Elisa watching their approach from the top of the staircase, which led out of the cellar into a courtyard of sorts, when a presence of impossible power manifested. Alistair was two steps ahead of her, and the mage could almost feel how his body automatically shifted into high alert even as he returned Elisa’s wave. Before either of them could make a move to warn the rogue, Celestine saw tendrils of energy wrap around the Cousland’s torso; she knew better than to try and warn anyone at that point, it was magic, powerful magic, and even with his Templar training Alistair would be hard-pressed to realise what was about to happen.

It happened in the blink of an eye; first Elisa was standing there, then she was gone- an image of her widening eyes frozen in Celestine’s mind. The mage pushed past her armoured companion, a cold sensation running down her back at the soft grunt the noble had emitted before disappearing behind the edge of the the staircase that blocked the rest of the courtyard from view.

Celestine flew to where Elisa had stood, scanning the courtyard, making note of the great portcullis leading to the road that travellers would normally have had to take to get into the castle and the many stairs that led up to what looked to be the castle proper. Elisa was nowhere to be found, and Celestine resorted to following a wispy trail of whatever had grabbed the rogue to find where she had gone. As if sensing it had been found out, a tall figure moved out of the darkness of the shadowy alcove the trail led her to.

It was at least half a man taller than a human, and while its chest was bare, the rest was covered in archaic armour that looked as though it had weathered the passing of ages. The legs were hidden behind skirts of midnight blue cloth that bore several large tears, and despite dragging on the ground, it did not seem to impede the creature. The bared chest revealed mustard-yellow skin that tended towards grey, muscles so individually defined that it made Celestine wonder whether the being had any skin to begin with, as they rippled at even the slightest movement. She could make out several broken-off arrow shafts sticking out of the left pectoral.

The sight of the creature held her attention only for a moment; it was the burden it bore that stopped her dead in her tracks. While almost casually holding a large kite shield in one hand, the other held a massive longsword before it, steel darkened by some strange magic, silver runes glowing across its length. The metal glistened with something...more...as light from the sun hit it, but all Celestine could see was what lay the base of the sword’s blade. What she should have seen was a hilt, an arm, more of the creature; it was all obstructed by Elisa’s impaled form, tempered length protruding from her torso. The rogue was gripping onto the metal slicked with her own blood, whether trying to escape or trying to stay still Celestine could not tell, but any thoughts she might have had on the matter were dispelled when she saw the blonde look up at her weakly, features pale.

The head of the creature bearing Elisa seemed to mimic her movement, helmeted head looking up from his prey to Celestine. Glowing blood-red eyes held her in place; it felt like an eternity, the creature neither blinking nor moving. The only indication that time had not stopped was Elisa’s increasingly weak struggle and the strangely loud tap as droplets of blood dripped from the tip of the black blade onto the dusty ground.

Then Alistair was there, the strange feeling of preparedness permeating the air again, and Celestine realised it was his probably his Templar training subconsciously coming into play, drawing on something greater than himself as he headed into battle. He looked at her, bashful young man gone, golden eyes flickering with a hidden fire, silently asking if he should make the first move.

Celestine faltered. She had taken on the responsibility of being their small group’s leader almost instinctively in her need to _set things right_. That drive blinded her to the fact that it might not have been her role to fill, and now they relied on her, _trusted her_ , to make the calls. Despite the events in the dungeon just moments before, she had not been set aside as something too dangerous. Not been branded as unreliable or despised. Apart from Elisa stating that they would need to talk about things, no one had changed how they interacted with her in the slightest. She did not believe she was deserving of such loyalty, such faith.

_It’s understandable, all humans are flawed; after all, was that not why the Maker turned from us? Because of our broken nature? And yet they still choose to place their hope in me. Who am I? Just some mage who barely missed the brand. It would have been better if I had been made Tranquil, or died at Ostagar. Better to go down fighting the Darkspawn than be a threat to my friends. Friends…whenever have I truly had those? Jowan just used me; it took an organisation that used to be exiled from these lands for me to find someone who would even tolerate me._

_Do not fear. I am, after all, a mage of unparalleled power. I could use that power to end the Blight all on my own – I could save countless lives. I need not put my friends in danger. The Fade beckons me; wishes to follow my every whim. Let it, I can show you how._

_Begone, Pride, and leave me alone. You claimed to have marked me as prey of yours, yet even aspects of Rage work to get through to me and manage to do better than you. If you do not intend to follow up on this promise of yours, leave me alone; otherwise, face me now! Let us determine the victor of this game for my soul._

_Soon, soon - I have quite the surprise planned for you, my little mageling._

Celestine blinked several times; the whole exchange felt like it had lasted minutes, but Alistair was still looking at her as if waiting for a signal. She inclined her head ever so slightly, an idea already forming in her mind once it was cleared of Pride’s influence. He returned the gesture, and banged his sword on his shield once, taunting, before he charged, boots kicking up dust.

Movement caught in the corner of the mage Warden’s eye. Looking up, she saw a pair of corpses had appeared, wielding bows. Alistair’s noise must have attracted them.

“Morrigan, take care of any dead; I’ll aid Alistair!” she shouted to the witch as she once more followed in the wake of the one who had recruited her.

Celestine heard a sharp crack behind her as she neared Alistair and the creature that had impaled Elisa. Above them, on the battlements, several bolts of lightning rained down, arcing between attacking corpses.

Alistair reached the monster and was stalking it warily in a half-circle. It did not want to seem to follow his movement so he was very suspicious of any surprises that might be lurking behind it.

Celestine managed to catch Elisa’s eyes once more before the grey-blue orbs fluttered closed, skin whiter than parchment. The Amell’s upper lip twitched; she might not deserve them, but she sure did not deserve their death - _dare hurt her friends, eh?_ Her hands spun, bringing her staff around as vapour trailed the jewelled head, before she lifted it into the air in her right hand and slammed it down.

There was a loud crystalline crack as a tower of ice instantly formed around their enemy’s sword arm and half its body. Alistair did not waste any time; he dropped his sword and moved to lift Elisa’s dead weight off the black blade; its eyes had followed Celestine and were now moving after Alistair, almost lazily. Its free arm was anything but lazy though; gripping the shield properly, it started pounding at the ice encasing it, causing chips to fly and the magically formed column to groan treacherously.

Trying to balance speed and gentleness, Alistair had placed the unmoving form of their rogue friend on the ground when a loud shattering noise came from behind him. He instinctively rolled around, back hitting the ground next to Elisa, bringing his shield to bear. The move saved him. Metal rang on metal as the black sword crashed against the shield. Once, twice, thrice. Flames sprung up around the creature, but it seemed unaffected. The monster and the weapon continued to pound at Alistair and the strain he was taking became apparent as dust kicked up from the struggle plastered his face, leaving rivulets of skin revealed where escaping beads of sweat washed away some of the grime. When it looked like the Warden would finally falter under the relentless barrage there was a metallic _thunk_.

The creature looked up, the arrow protruding from its visor making the movement look terribly wrong. A sigh seemed to escape from the helmet – a hollow echoing noise that was more akin to wind howling through mountains than an actual sound a person would make. Its gaze turned towards where the arrow had come from. Standing on top of the battlements of the gatehouse was Leliana, red hair whipping in the lakeside breeze, bow still held as if she had just loosed.

Celestine looked to the portcullis to see Erik standing there, accompanied by Ser Perth and his men. She thought he may have given her some signal, but the distance was too great to tell and there was still their foe to deal with. Looking back at her opponent, she could see that Alistair had managed to scramble up, his shield arm no longer held as defiantly as before, but with sword gripped and at the ready.

The creature seemed fixated on Leliana, ignoring all of the others, which was why Celestine noticed when it reached out its hand towards the red-head, the same magic twirling around its arm that she had seen earlier. Understanding dawned as the same cold streak ran down her back as before.

“Alistair, knock down that arm and use a smite!” she commanded; if Leliana was pulled in the same manner as Elisa had been she would either break something from the fall, or also be impaled.

The former Templar did as she asked, blue flames flickering off his armour as he tackled the tall monster. Either due to his weight, or the smite Alistair had wreathed himself in, but the creature went down in a clatter of armour as the magic around it dissipated.

“Alright, now move back!”

The sandy-haired man struggled to untangle himself from the creature, but he managed to get loose of the long limbs and part rolled, part crawled away. As soon as Celestine was sure he was far enough out of range, she pushed her staff into the air, feeling the mana in her body react. Her mind seemed to see everything around her at once, the smallest details coming into focus as the essence of the Fade offered itself up to her.

She had had enough, the events with Jowan had caused her to bottle up, to reinforce the already strict control over her spells. But with the life of one she cared about on the line she relinquished as much of that as she dared. The same flames of rage as before raced through her veins, setting her blood alight with living fire, but this time she was aware of it - aware of how the lyrium seemed to beg for more - this time she was in control.

Where the air had been still moments before, spinning energy pulled dust from the ground around the creature into an ever growing column as it struggled to get back to its feet. Without warning the coiling air ignited, forming a twisting column of fire.

Celestine used her will to shape the pillar, making it narrower and narrower until it became so much compressed heat that it was difficult to look at in its brilliance. She pushed it together until it was a spear, a  shaft of energy, and then finally released it into the sky. When the javelin of concentrated fire reached the clouds, a booming thunder shook the skies, echoing between the walls of Redcliffe’s castle courtyard.

The only thing that remained where she had originally formed the spell was a glowing pile of molten metal and a smooth reflective coating on the dust.

She wanted to collapse on the ground and cry, to let out all the emotions that had been boiling inside her for the past two days. But duty and a friend’s life would not afford her that luxury. So, ignoring the dirty tracks running down her face, she moved next to Alistair who had struggled up next to Elisa’s still form.

There was a loud cranking noise from where the portcullis was and Celestine could hear the hurried jog of worried feet.  She ignored the heated argument that broke out between Alistair and Morrigan. She ignored the worried looks from Erik, who looked as though the world had been shattered into as many fragments as the Fade. She ignored how Leliana quietly slipped a supporting hand into his. She ignored how the shadows grew to bathe the courtyard in the same darkness that had put Elisa into the state that she was in. She ignored how the flicker of her spells seemed to highlight the worry frozen on everyone’s face. She ignored them all, just as she ignored the tears forming in her eyes as she summoned the magic she prayed would save her friend.


	33. Potestas Trabea

There was a loud clamouring at the door as a trio of Templars pushed their way past the First Enchanter into the room, or at least, Samantha had thought they were Templars. But she soon determined they were not.  They had the same bearing, but their faces bore something more, a certain knowing. Their armour was different from the plate that was standard issue among the Chantry’s military branch, favouring more leather as opposed to metal. The last thing that set them apart was the dark tabards that bore the motif of a large white eye on a stylized Chantry sun.

The Tranquil could hear the First Enchanter loudly arguing with someone outside as the three strangers began combing the room, carefully inspecting apparatuses and paging through books and piles of notes. Eventually one of the men moved to speak with her.

“Pardon me,” he paused, clearly struggling to find a form of address, “…my lady. May I inquire as to why you are in the First Enchanter’s Laboratory?”

Samantha’s eyes passed over him, taking stock of his appearance. He was still coated in dust, clearly just having arrived at the Circle after a long journey. It had been a while since she had seen a dust-stained traveller. He had collar-length dark brown hair that stuck up at odd, windswept angles where it was not clinging to his skin and was sporting week-old stubble. His eyes were a surprisingly clear brown-green considering how travel-worn the rest of him appeared.

“I fulfil the First Enchanter’s administrative requirements. I have been assigned as his Formari aide in the research that he is performing and assist in the completion of menial tasks.” Her tone was even as she recounted her assigned function. “I also oversee this Circle’s Formari research into the properties of Lyrium and the Fade. There are currently five other Tranquil reporting their findings to me, as well as correspondents from the Circles in Starkhaven, Montsimmard and Ferelden. I-”

“Yes, yes, thank you. That’s quite enough.” The armoured man cut her off, rubbing his brow. “I get the picture.” Seemingly done with his interrogation he turned to shout over his shoulder, “Oi, Neal! What do I do with the Tranquil?!”

“Leave her, you know how they are. There’s nothing they would do to purposefully undermine the Circle.”

“Yeah, but she said she was the First Enchanter’s administrative aide…. She might know something.”

“Fine, fine,” the other man conceded, the exasperation in his tone evident. “But you’ll have to take responsibility for her. I’m not babysitting one of those.”

The man rolled his eyes at Neal’s response. “Fine, whatever.” He turned back to address Samantha, “Ma’am, please, if you’ll follow me.”

“I am not permitted to act on any authority that does not supersede the First Enchanter’s own. If you do, sir, you have not yet identified yourself as such.” The Tranquil’s flat voice echoed strangely in the room, as she had spoken precisely then when the noise outside had died down, causing the other man, Neal, to stop rummaging through whatever crate he had found and look up, the earlier look of disinterest gone.

The man who had asked Samantha to follow him did a half-bow. “My apologies, that was rude of me. I am Martin Toole, of the Order of Seekers. Only the Divine herself has more authority than we do, so you have no need to fear breaching protocol by doing as we request.”

“Very well, Seeker Martin. Although I wish to have confirmation of your claim made by either the First Enchanter or The Knight Commander should you require anything more of me.”

The lack of inflection of her voice seemed not to bother Martin as it normally did with Templars and mages. He simply nodded, agreeing with her requirements.

As Samantha followed Martin out of the room, they passed by two Templars flanking another attired in the same fashion as the two Seekers; had she had the capacity to be surprised, she might have been to find that this one was a woman. She was looking away from her, so the Trevelyan could not distinguish anything but dark hair, tied back into a warrior’s tail.

The woman was questioning the First Enchanter, her voice heavily accented. The dialect was unfamiliar to Samantha, but then her attention was drawn to the First Enchanter, whose face she could see. His eyes grew wide as they landed on her as she followed after the other Seeker.

~o~

Celestine woke up, eyes bleary. She looked around, unsure of where she was. Her eyes were met with darkness and she struggled to sit up, only to be quickly and none too gently pushed back down.

“Less haste, Amell. Or do you wish to tip back to the floor as soon as you stand up?”

The mage sighed in relief as she recognised Morrigan’s scolding tone. She put her head back down on what she now realised must have been a pile of empty sacks; the hessian, despite its cilice-like nature, was unfamiliarly comfortable after several weeks in a bedroll. She waited as the feeling of lightheadedness, caused by her rushed rising, passed. Then she recalled what she had last been doing before she passed out.

“How is she?” The Grey Warden mage recalled putting her all into healing Elisa. It had never been a strength of hers, as she had never been able to properly practice the Creation school extensively. Her magic had always flooded out too powerfully, even with her strict rein on it, to work the delicate art that was healing a broken body. It did not help that none of the wounds anyone sustained at the Circle seemed to cater to her. Either they were too minor, or too major, for her to effectively practice on. Senior Enchanter Wynne had promised to give her some lessons after she had passed her Harrowing, but as events had played out that never happened; considering that Wynne had also been at Ostagar, even if she had survived the massacre, Celestine doubted that they would have the time to work together.

The young mage recalled how she had once tried healing a broken leg Jowan had sustained after slipping on some rocks while they were taking a break outside several years ago. Her lack of knowledge had healed the injury incorrectly, forcing the Circle’s healers to break and reset it. Jowan himself had not complained much, as he had been on a strange high from Celestine’s magic for the next week – as she had expended far too much energy on the spell.

The aftermath of the incident resulted in the young mage poring through all of the books the Circle had on the healing arts.  From anatomy and practical surgical applications to the actual use of magic within healing, it had been alluring.  The Circle had gathered extensive information on the topics, and learning the intricate workings of the human body combined with the the number of discoveries that had been made was fascinating. It was just sad to see how all of that knowledge was hoarded, kept hidden from almost all of the medical personnel outside of the mages.  They had to stumble through, learn techniques for themselves and pass knowledge on using an ineffective apprenticing method, if at all - cases of where the barber and the surgeon were the same person were far too common.  There was a monumental disjointing between the great discoverers and the mages and the medical knowledge of the rest of society.

Elisa’s case had been a great test of everything Celestine knew. The black blade had penetrated her liver, but luckily missed the kidney by a narrow margin. The most challenging injury had been the damage to the spinal cord – it had been partially severed, with the sword passing between two vertebrae.

The task of not only saving Elisa’s life, but maintaining her control over her lower limbs had been a tremendous challenge, as weaving the individual strands back to their original state required a finer and more precise control over her power than anything she had ever done. The liver had been relatively easy. A burst of energy and the cut was already knitting itself back together. Celestine had then made sure that the main artery and vein were intact before moving onto the spine; it would have been worthless to help knit the grey matter there if her friend bled out in the meantime.

The work on Elisa’s spine would definitely count as one of the stranger experiences in her life, even considering everything she had already been through. Using her magic, she would sense what each path led to, mapping out the lower part of the rogue’s body. With this knowledge, she would reconnect each cell of grey matter to where it had originally attached. The strangeness was not only due to her gaining an intimate knowledge of the rogue anywhere below the wound, but also because whenever one path reconnected, the electric jolt generated would give Celestine a glance at something from Elisa’s mind.  Some seemed to be images out of her past, others seemed to be fabrications - ideas and thoughts that her imagination or subconscious conjured up. It was almost like coming in contact with a part of the Fade, but more controlled, and entirely Elisa. Every single part of it was steeped in her essence.

The task had been an arduous one, trying to keep Elisa’s systems functioning while knitting the most intricate one back together, then being blasted with images, scents and other sensations that tried to pull her away from reality. Towards the end, Celestine had felt herself slipping – getting lost in Elisa’s mind and casting her magic almost on instinct as she reconnected the thousandth neuron. After the rest of the body had been healed, and only the spinal cord remained, Celestine’s reserves had been depleted enough that she didn’t have to worry about holding back too much to conduct the fine work she was doing. The day turned into evening and the evening into night, and finally even her consciousness blurred into darkness as she continued to work, carefully piecing together her friend.

“Our noble rogue looks to be in an ever improving condition, thanks to you. Mind you, I would warn you from exerting so much power again. We know not what we might need to face inside that castle.”

“I’ll give as much of myself as I have to, I… Elisa’s life is far more valuable than mine. She has a brother, she’s a noble; she probably has friends across the whole country.”

“If that’s what you wish to believe, I’ll not hinder you. But I’ll not suffer that whining boy of a man if he returns to moping as he did before.”

Celestine was about to retort, only to see the Wilder Witch’s back disappearing up a set of stairs. Her eyes had adjusted, allowing her to recognise the room she was in. It was the cellar they had been in just before entering the courtyard. Recalling only too well what had happened the last time someone disappeared up those stairs, she struggled to get up, untangling her robes from her legs before hastening after the abrasive woman.

The former Circle mage was greeted by a pre-dawn sky, the clouds in the east gradually getting set alight by the promised sun. Celestine could make out two shadowy forms standing sentinel, one near the portcullis, leading outside, another at the base of the stairs, heading towards the Castle’s main hall. There were ashes of the previous night’s fire at the base of the only tree in the courtyard – a magnificent old oak. Celestine could not see Morrigan anywhere, but Leliana was poking at the embers, trying to coax the orange tongues of flame back to life. Seeing the approaching Grey Warden, she smiled wanly.

“Our miracle worker returns to the land of the living.” She teased, “At this rate you’re not helping prove the Chantry Sister’s theory that I may have been dropped on my head as a child.”

Celestine rubbed the sleep from her eyes before responding. “Please Leliana, I am hardly involved in anything divine. But since getting to know you, I have rarely had cause to believe there’s something at fault with your mental faculties.”

“Rarely? So you’re saying that I have given reason to occasionally doubt my sanity, no?”

“Well yes…those times you and Elisa raced to see who could reach the tops of those trees on our way here. Nobody has business swinging around boughs that thin that recklessly,” the mage replied as she dropped to the grass next to Leliana.

“Ah…perhaps. I used to climb the trees in the orchard of the Lady my mother served when I was still a child. It was…a more innocent time.” Her eyes seemed to grow distant as she said it.

“Where is your mother now?”

“She…she’s passed on.”

Celestine paused, the answer unexpectedly personal, she searched her mind for something to say. But what could she say? She was a mage who had never known her parents. She could console the red-head about as much as she could the twins. She knew nothing of their pain.

“But it’s alright.” Leliana broke the increasingly awkward silence after a deep shuddering breath. “It has been quite a large number of years; I don’t actually remember her. Apart from the scent of Andraste’s Grace on her clothing I have nothing to miss. I actually remember more of Cecille, the one my mother served. She raised me, in her own way, after my mother passed. Climbing the trees with Elisa, it reminded me of…happier times.” Her voice sounded so distant, as if the archer was not sitting there in front of a struggling fire, outside a haunted castle, before an ever encroaching Blight.

Once more Celestine was at a loss for words, something she was currently struggling with. Normally she could feel them come to her without effort, her thoughts presented on a richly prepared platter of Circle-taught vocabulary. But perhaps that was why she could not find the words. All she had were emotions. Sympathy, loss, sadness, relief, hope, fear…how did one put them into words? How did one tell someone you _wanted_ to help, but you did not even know where to _begin?_ Instead, she simply reached an arm across the rogue’s shoulder and hugged her to her, soon joined by Triss, who snuffed at Celestine’s hand until the mage scratched her behind the ears a bit.

The pair was startled to their feet when they heard a familiar voice shouting from the tent behind them: “ _You bloody moron!_ ”

 

 


	34. Potestas Exoletus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions, Plans and Beds are made.

Celestine and Leliana rushed into the tent, expecting the worst, a nebulous aura of magic already manifesting around Celestine’s hands. The sight that greeted them behind the canvas entrance-flap surprised both women: Elisa was lying on the bedroll they had prepared for her, while Erik was half-crouching, half-sitting at her side. He was rubbing his jaw, while Elisa rubbed her hand, breathing slightly heavier than usual.

The Cousland twins looked at the new arrivals, Erik’s jaw clenched with some pent-up emotion, while Elisa huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, managing to look very sulky even in her lying position.

“‘scuse me,” the young man said gruffly before squeezing past Celestine. Leliana looked questioningly from his retreating back to Elisa, who shrugged. The red-headed rogue then sent a questioning look towards Celestine, who rolled her eyes and nodded.

Once Leliana had also ducked out of the tent, Celestine crawled in and tried to find a comfortable position to sit in at the foot of Elisa’s bedroll.

“So…” she started, giving the rogue a questioning glance.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just getting a bit worked up about this whole affair, as if I were about to just wake up to fall on my blade simply because we’re reminded of how mortality actually works.”

“Ah,” Celestine responded’ it was the only thing she could think of saying. There had always been precious few people she cared about in her life, even fewer that may have cared for her in return. It was true, what Elisa said. Even after Ostagar, she had never really considered her own mortality, and especially not that of her new friends, who seemed as steadfast as any rocks. All this time the only thing that had truly concerned her had been the Fade’s effect on her. She had never had any siblings that she knew of; the closest blood she could call on was the Hawkes’ and that relationship was still in its infancy. Elisa and Erik however had been together since before their birth. They were bonded to one another in a manner that went beyond anything Celestine could relate to.

“So, how is my patient doing physically, frustrated kin aside?” Celestine eventually thought to ask.

“Void, you’d never think what happened had. I feel great. I’m pretty sure I could even stand. Tina, I swear you must be like the hand of the Maker - to pluck me from the jaws of death like that.”

The Circle mage could feel her ears turn red with the compliment. “Yes, well...don’t go jumping into those jaws again any time soon.” Her demeanour turned serious, “I’m not sure how I managed to do what I did. I can’t even truly remember half of it. Part of me believes that because I didn’t screw up anything, the hand of the Maker truly was at work.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Tina.”

There was a short pause, where neither woman said anything. Celestine broke it by addressing the rogue again, “Elisa, I….” After receiving an encouraging nod from the blonde, she continued, “While working to return sense to your legs I...saw things.”

The rogue grinned, “What kind of things? Rory Gilmore trying on one of my dresses?”

“What? No! Wait, who’s Rory Gilmore?”

The smile slipped off Elisa’s face, “A brave man I once knew.”

“Ah.” There it was again, that broken feeling. The past hour seemed to have Celestine stumbling from one to another. Part of her thought Fate was playing some cruel trick on her. She bulldozed onward regardless, “No, at least I think not. When I healed you - I saw things, memories, thoughts, ideas. It was as if it was part of the Fade but...your own personal corner of it. A section dedicated entirely to who and what you are. Some of those things were wonderful, joyful, some the boring trudge of everyday life, others.… I - you are a strong woman Elisa.”

Elisa’s face had taken on an unreadable expression. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, those were all very private experiences. I promise, I swear, I’ll never tell anyone anything I saw, unless you ask for me to.”

The rogue waved weakly at the mage, “No, no. No need to feel remorse. After all, you saved my life, although I find myself wanting to apologise as well, that you had to witness those things...experience them...it is an unfair repayment for what you have done for me - my brother.”

Celestine simply nodded to that, there was nothing more that could or should be said. All that she knew was that there were depths to Elisa that the rogue took great pains to conceal and the mage respected her all the more for it.

“Now, even if you may feel like you’re up for more, I must insist that you say in bed for at least a day more. I need to be certain that you can function as well as previously before we set out again,” Celestine commanded with mock sternness.

Elisa chuckled, playing along as she saluted mockingly, “Yes Madame.”

So despite the serious matters that still hung about the two like a pall, Celestine managed to climb out of the tent with a smile adorning her lips. She was just in time to see that the sun had risen enough for her to identify Alistair walking back into the fortress through the gates, head down in thought. The appearance of the young man raised the young mage’s spirits even more, the subdued demeanour piquing her curiosity though. She caught his eye as they both made their way to the campfire, but he did not hold her gaze, causing her to replace curiosity with concern as the companions that were not bedridden congregated around the pot of porridge that had been prepared by Sten.

Breakfast was a muted affair, with the reality of why they were where they were returning once more, now that Elisa’s life was no longer balanced on a knife’s edge. Celestine wanted to speak with Alistair, since he had grown up there and all of the problems had to have been affecting him in some way. But, contrary to his normal manner, and as attested to by the avoided eye-contact, he seemed to exude an aura of unapproachability. That was something that the Warden mage was more familiar with in connection to Morrigan, as opposed to the usually awkward and cheerful young man.

Celestine came to the decision that she would rather tackle the issue with Alistair when there was no longer the threat of imminent attack by undead hordes looming over them. So, she called together the party in preparation for heading into the castle, the mask of command that had been developing over the past month falling into place easily, burying any personal issues. “Erik, I want you to stay with your sister. Make sure she doesn’t get out of bed for at least today. I’ll try and re-evaluate her after all of this is dealt with. She’s lost a lot of blood, so until she regains that, she’ll probably be sleeping a lot. As for the rest of you, I want everyone to come with us - we have no idea what we’re headed into. But since Redcliffe isn’t an ancient Tevinter ruin, rather a habitated home, we can expect this was the work of either another blood mage, or in the worst-case scenario, a demon - although the two aren’t that far different from one another.”

Pausing for breath, the young mage turned to her fellow caster. “Morrigan, I hope you’ve had more experience with this kind of thing. I only know how to dispel effects _after_ they’ve been cast, and that doesn’t help if we’re trying to prevent a glamour or something similar from affecting us.”

The Wilder Witch nodded in response as Celestine shifted her attention to Sten and Leliana. “That said, if we come across anyone who is under a glamour, or any of us ends up under one, I need you two to deal with those afflicted in a _non_ -lethal manner; both blood mages and demons bring out the worst in people and we don’t accidentally want to kill someone we need.” Leliana inclined her head, just as Sten made no visible sign of affirmation, but Celestine had gotten used to his demeanour by that point and did not spare it a second thought.

“Alastair.” The former templar looked at her, his eyes piercing. It was a meaningless, empty look and the Amell mage found herself returning it. There was no expression in the exchange, but something flipped inside her as she felt she could almost see his soul - her mask slipping. Never had she seen him so serious before, not even in his grief for Duncan. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she broke her gaze away, struggling to regain the lost composure. “I need you to keep an eye out for any magic and nullify it; even if Morrigan and I end up getting caught in the backlash, we can’t afford to have any but our magic controlling the field.” The senior Grey Warden inclined his head, his jaw set.

Nodding to the group, Celestine  next addressed Ser Perth, who was waiting with his knights nearby. “Ser, I would be grateful if you and your men hold this courtyard. We know not how many more of those unliving are still around, and if we fail, we need someone to protect the village from further assaults - here is the perfect chokepoint.”

“We shall do as you wish, My Lady Warden. Your guidance has yet to be to Redcliffe’s detriment - something I doubt shall come to pass,” the knight replied, saluting by bringing his right fist to his heart and bowing.

Celestine nodded her thanks and began to make her way up the stairs that would lead to the great hall, robes clasped in one hand, staff in the other.

 

~o~

 

Martin led Samantha through the corridors of the Circle until he reached a stairwell, and  descended two levels. He followed the next torch-lit hall until they reached a thick wooden door. The Tranquil following him recognised the area. She had been past it often enough, though the opportunity to actually travel through it had never presented itself, as it was the area designated for the Templars.

The Chantry’s soldiers didn’t permit any mages - former or present - to enter the area. The barracks-like space was kept clean by fresh recruits; the tasks of cleaning floors and latrines was supposedly effective at developing humility and discipline and thus good for the soul. From what plans of the Circle layout Samantha had seen under the First Enchanter’s service also indicated that there was a fully dedicated drill-and-parade-ground further into that particular section.

The Seeker leading Samantha pulled out a large iron key and inserted it into the keyhole. As he turned it she could hear several latches retracting. He then closed the door after she had followed him in and, seeing the complex locking mechanism of the door, realized that it was no ordinary chamber.

It was spartan enough - the only decoration was a set of black tapestries emblazoned with a white eye surrounded by the Chantry’s sun. There were six empty beds, evenly spaced against the walls. On the far side of the room it opened up into a circular area, with several bookshelves and tables lining the walls. The shelves seemed to be filled with tomes and scrolls following a uniform nature. The books only had a number imprinted on the spines and the scrolls were neatly rolled up and placed into tidy alcoves. Of the tables, only two looked to be dedicated to reading, writing and other paperwork, with empty niches for inkwells and small drawers that no doubt contained quills, charcoal, blotting paper and other writing utensils. The rest held arcane glass vessels and metal instruments. Samantha recognized some from her work with the First Enchanter, others from her work with other Formari on enchantments, then others still from her time researching lyrium on her own.

Martin gestured towards a dresser. “No doubt you’ll spend the night here, or at least long enough into it that it’ll feel like the whole of it. You’ll find bedclothes in there, so you can make up one of the bunks in the back. They might need a bit of a shaking out though, not having been used for so long. Any questions?”

  
Samantha looked at him blankly before slowly shaking her head.

  
“Of course not,” the Seeker breathed, more to himself than the former mage. “Well, I advise getting some sleep now - when our glorious leader finally gets her claws into you it might take a few days before you once again have a normal night of rest.” With that he opened the door again using the key and walked out, closing it behind himself and leaving the room in almost complete darkness.


	35. Potestas Impugnetur

The massive wooden doors to the Great Hall were already ajar when the party arrived at the top of the flight of stairs leading from the courtyard. Alistair and Sten had taken point, and the silver-haired giant gave Celestine a questioning look. She nodded; with their roles already established they would move into the room as quickly as possible and eliminate any resistance they encountered.

 

The Qunari pushed against the wood with his shoulder, axe already clasped in both hands,readied for a swing following the portal’s opening. Alistair did the same on his side, using his shield to apply pressure to the barrier.

 

The door swung open ponderously, creaking with an ominous tone as the giant iron hinges supported its significant weight. The room that greeted them was empty, a relatively small entrance hall decorated in the traditional Ferelden manner with rough wooden carvings and rich, warm-coloured tapestries.

 

The flicker of firelight illuminated the floor, where long shadows were cast, the intangible indicators of persons standing near the light source. The stretched profiles danced across the stone tiles, eventually flickering up the tapestried wall on the opposite side.

 

Celestine hefted her staff, the smooth wood a familiar comfort of her old life after all she had been through. She could already feel the cold sweat running down her lower back as adrenalin started to course through her, causing the soft robes to stick to her skin.

 

Alistair and Sten were already advancing as silently as heavily armoured fighters could, with only the quiet creak of leather pressing on leather and the occasional clink of buckles to note their passing. Alistair was the first past the doorway into the main hall’s threshold. He came to a standstill almost at once, eyes hardening at the sight of whatever he saw. Sten used his larger stride to get to the far side of the room quickly; his response surprised Celestine the most, as he spat out what the mage was sure was a swear word in Qunlat - it had been the most emphatic reaction anything had ever gotten out of the giant man. She followed into the chamber soon after the men, Morrigan and Leliana close behind.

 

The sight that greeted her brought the Warden to a standstill. On the raised dais, where the Arl, his wife and any visiting dignitaries might have been seated during a feast, stood a small boy, his slight frame silhouetted by a roaring fire in an alcove behind him. Standing next to the boy was Lady Isolde, her head hanging at an odd angle, dejected, as though she was on the verge of giving up an unending struggle.

 

The long wooden tables at which people would normally sit were smashed against the walls, benches and stools lying over tables haphazardly. Standing close to these were several armoured men, faces hidden behind closed visors.

 

The center of everyone’s focus though, was the man in the middle of the room: Bann Teagan. The noble was cavorting around the cleared space, doing cartwheels and handstands, all the while wearing a grin that seemed fixed to his face without extending to his eyes, which darted around the room in a panicked manner.

 

The young boy who stood on the far side of the room jeered cruelly and clapped, seemingly enjoying the show. But he stopped as soon as he saw the glow forming around Celestine’s and Morrigan’s hands.

 

Lady Isolde seized the opportunity to make what sounded like another in a series of attempts to appeal to the boy-like thing. “Connor, _please_. I did as you asked….” Her voice wavered, “ _Please_ let my son go.” Celestine felt bad about her earlier assumption of the woman.

 

Something about the second part of Isolde’s plea caught the creature’s attention. “DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT I AM NOT YOUR CHILD, MOTHER?” The voice reverberated strangely, as if it were not only the boy’s vocal chords creating the sound. “I HAVE NO USE FOR YOU IF YOU CAN NOT CONTRIBUTE TO CONNOR’S HAPPINESS.”

 

Isolde was about to respond, her face a teary mess, but she was cut off by a sharp gesture made by the boy. “SILENCE. I GROW TIRED OF YOU, MOTHER. BUT LOOK, WE HAVE GUESTS.”

Bann Teagan performed a somersault that no nobleman would have dared to pull off, and landed, flourishing dramatically. "ARE THESE THE ONES YOU TOLD ME OF? THE ONES WHO RUINED ALL MY FUN?”

 

“Yes, Connor.” Celestine’s heart might have gone out to the woman at her dejected tone, but the noblewoman seemed to lack any spine, clearly having betrayed them to the creature as soon as any pressure was applied. Then again, she could not relate. The family she’d had had never been blood-ties, how would she know if that was any different? But knowledge did not breed sympathy, merely understanding, and understanding would not, in this case, change how she felt. She believed that the woman was responsible for all of this, after what Elisa had relayed to her of Jowan’s reason for being there. Apart from his having been hired by Loghain to poison the Arl, he had also been brought in by Isolde to secretly train her son, who had begun exhibiting signs of possessing magic. Jowan had never managed to keep up with regular apprentices; to have him tutor someone...it was all slotting into place.

 

“Let the boy go, demon, and we shan’t end you.”

 

“YOU DARE THREATEN ME IN MY OWN HOME? FOOLISH MORTAL. THIS PITIFUL VILLAGE IS MERELY THE FIRST IN THE CONQUEST I WILL LEAD ACROSS THIS MEAGER WORLD.”

 

Isolde looked as if she wanted to run to fall at Celestine’s feet, beg the Warden to help save her son, but a glance she shot at Connor before reminded her of the cause of her fear. Instead she voiced her plea from the dais next to the possessed child, legs looking ready to give out under all the weight of the emotions weighing on the noble. “ _Please_ , Warden, you must help my son!”

  
Celestine caught a gesture from Sten, his eyes glimmering with some emotion, and she could see the muscles along his neck working. Clearly something about the situation was affecting the usually stoic Qunari. He jerked his chin forward, the small but aggressive motion clear in its meaning. She looked to Alistair, who was keeping his eyes on Connor, but occasionally slid his attention towards Sten. Celestine gave a curt nod to grey-skinned warrior.  
  


“I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO REMAIN SILENT!” the child screeched. Isolde whimpered and collapsed to the floor, sobbing. The boy then turned to the statuesque soldiers, commanding them, “KILL THEM, KILL THEM ALL!”

 

The armoured men lunged at them, far more swiftly than any of the undead had. Bann Teagan also drew a sword from somewhere, charging at the Wardens’ party, eyes wide with terror. Alistair and Sten surged forward to meet the attack, Alistair catching a blade on his shield as he stabbed underneath it. The blade deflected off his opponent’s armour though and with a grunt of annoyance, he shifted his shield just enough to kick at his opponent’s knee. There was a sickening crack as the faceless man failed to dodge the underhanded move. The limb gave out underneath his armoured bulk, giving the Warden a chance to bury his blade in the slit between the helmet and cuirass.

 

The giant companion swung his axe in a controlled arc, lopping off one of the aggressor’s heads before his attack could be deflected, helmet making a dull ringing noise as it hit the tiles with its macabre contents. Sten controlled the flow of the swing into a new attack, this time burying the weapon in the shoulder of his opponent. Bones crunched as the armour dented under the heavy weapon. The Qunari had to kick the body off his weapon to free it from the twisted steel.

 

He was about to prepare for another attack when an arrow whizzed by his face, causing him to sway back on reflex. The shaft was buried several inches into the breastplate of another foe, the force of the shot having slightly staggered them. Sten’s mouth formed into a wordless snarl as he drove the spiked butt of his axe into the same place where the arrow had landed. The blow thrust the arrow in deeper, breaking off the shaft that had not entered the chest, splintering what got caught under the spike. The hole widened slightly, being pried apart by the brutish attack; it was not enough to let the spike through, but he lifted his armoured opponent into the air, throwing the guard a good yard or two from the site of their encounter.

 

“Morrigan!” Celestine called as she recovered from freezing one of the men who had made it past the advance guard of their party. “Free the Bann from the glamour!”

 

The former circle mage heard her fellow mutter something under her breath as dark tendrils of energy reduced an enemy to an empty suit that clattered to the ground. Celestine almost failed to raise her staff in time as the Bann’s sword came swinging down. “Oh no, not again,” she forced out between clenched teeth, using all her strength to hold off the more powerful man as he used his weight advantage to press down on her, giving her an unnerving opportunity to stare into his pleading eyes up close. Suddenly Teagan twisted his blade so that she was no longer pressing against it perpendicularly. The Amell’s eyes widened as she slipped forward; she could just see the Bann stick out a foot to trip her and there was nothing she could do about it with her uncontrolled momentum.

 

~o~

 

She sat bolt-upright, eyes flying open. She was in a coolly-lit antechamber, ice covering the flagstones and creeping up the walls. Icicles shimmered  along arches as droplets of water continuously dripped down, steadily growing the teeth-like formations.

 

_Sel min mah er delon fa ihr, meleth ta min finnin sri._

 

The haunting words echoed from beyond the impressive door before her. Strangely enough, she could not sense any stiffness in her body, despite waking from what had to have been an uncomfortable sleeping position. She breathed out purposefully hard, breath misting in the air, yet she did not feel cold. Shaking her head at this revelation, she walked towards the door; it was breaking through the frozen barrier to open even before she touched it. The sound of shattering ice screeching and tinkling was somehow aggravating and soothing at the same time.

 

_Elam min melak finé srihe, elam min keda ta yillin vas._

 

The voice danced toward her from the icy hall once more. The words were strangely familiar, yet she could not say why. They were not in any Theodosian language she had yet encountered.

 

_Seth min cente ta min keldi, ellu min ventras fa ves._

 

She stumbled forward through the now-open doorway, the large hall in front of her enrapturing her with its beauty. Fine marble columns arced to the roof, disappearing into forests of icicles. The marble itself was carved into flowing shapes that seemed too ethereal to hold up the vaulted ceiling and the ice. Light danced in all corners of the chamber.

 

_Bana man shai invelasa, te prenneth shai vessa._

 

The voice seemed to be just ahead, but infinitely far away as well, the way it teased from every inch of the room, icicles tinkling with the vibrations in an almost teasing titter.

 

_“Cena min abeth umfer hai, yillan fera vasse dan.”_

 

The last stanza sounded almost Qunlat, but there was a softness to the words that was not present in the language of Par Vollen. She walked between the frozen pillars, hands not quite daring to touch them, lest they fly away from her as the door had done, or shatter and bring the roof down on her. Somehow she doubted that would happen, but she refrained nonetheless.

 

_Sel min kelda er grotma es, ellu min yillan ta keldi man ihr_

 

She rounded what could have been the tenth or the hundredth pillar when she saw a small figure sitting on the iced-over floor. It had deep red hair, contrasting strongly with the stark white surroundings. Lightly freckled pale arms were the only visible skin she could see as she approached, the rest of the...what looked to be a child, covered in a wispy white shift that that blended so well with the ice that it looked to be a part of it.

 

_Ot shai eza cet nai tet kel, maneth fi min leslath kai._

 

The child sang to itself as it played on the floor, or at least it looked like playing, until she saw how it pressed its hands into the ice, not finding any resistance in the solidified water, then had golden lines flow from its fingertips, which carved shapes into the transparent surface covering the tiles.

 

_Hela kant ea me finina fel, heka ses shai len’er yinon._

 

She looked down at her feet, eyes widening in surprise. Getting to her knees, she inspected the floor; even here there were carvings, evidence that the child-thing had not always been where it was. Upon closer inspection she could see that all the ice she had crossed was marked in a similar manner. She looked up to where the child had been seated, suddenly aware that the sing-song chant had stopped, and found herself staring into a pair of vivid yet sombre green eyes. Small hands reached to hold her by the temples, golden lines weaving from where they touched her head to wrap around her crown. Tears sprung up from the girl’s eyes, for that was what the child appeared to be with its shoulder-length loose hair.

  
_Come back to me Samantha, I miss you._


	36. Antiquis Timores

She had felt vulnerable before, a byproduct of her existence as a mage. Her isolation from her peers and any mundane person almost ensured that it would happen, time and again.

 

One of her earliest memories of being defenseless was when the Templars first retrieved her from her home, from her parents. She couldn’t remember them very well, apart from vague impressions. Her mother had been the warm softness always ready to embrace, smelling of embrium and freshly baked bread. Her father had been a towering presence, never entirely close, but always there, keeping them safe.

 

When the Templars took her, that security vanished. No longer could she hide behind the skirts of her mother, or seek comfort in her embrace. No longer could she gaze in awe at her father’s height, a pillar of consolation. Instead she was surrounded by a constant wall of faceless steel that did not care for her. By a tower whose dark corners whispered to her of countless secrets. By fellows that whispered warnings of her to each other, shied away from her.

 

She had felt vulnerable when Greagoir had dragged her to the First Enchanter to check for possession. When another walked through her dreaming mind, her inner-self laid bare.

 

She had felt vulnerable when the other apprentices had stolen her clothes while bathing. A Templar taking pity on her and finding her something to wear back to the dormitories.

 

She had felt vulnerable when she stepped into the Fade. Templar swords bared, should she fail her Harrowing.

 

She felt vulnerable now. Falling to the ground with a bared blade at her back.

 

She hit the floor. The stone rough through the cloth of her robes.

 

She was well acquainted with vulnerability, being exposed to potential harm, but she knew that she was also far from helpless, even now.

 

To others it must have seemed like something detonated on the floor when she hit. A dull  _ thud _ rang through the room as an invisible shock wave rippled from Celestine’s prone form. Bann Teagan was tossed back as if hit by a battering ram. His head connected with one of the chairs thrown to the side of the room and he slumped to the ground. Motionless.

 

As Celestine struggled back to her feet, taking care not to have her robes catch beneath her feet, she realised that all sounds of battle had ceased. Isolde was looking even more disheveled, with her hair now also blown out of place, in addition to the paint running down her face. The bodies of the soldiers that had attacked them were lying on the floor around her companions, bloody rivulets trickling along the mortar between the stones.

“Where’s Connor?” Celestine asked, her voice hard.

 

“The possessed boy,” Morrigan replied, “ran down yonder passage,” her disdain at the situation evident in her tone as she gestured to a darkened hallway that led further into the castle

 

“No,  _ Connor! _ Please, you must save my son!” Isolde wailed.

 

Celestine found herself extremely annoyed by the woman’s constant pleas. The abrasions on her hands and knees did not assist her disposition and before she could stop herself, she found herself turning towards the noble.

 

“ _ I _ , must do  _ nothing! _ This entire mess is  _ your _ fault!” The words came out in a cold fury, words enunciated to bear the weight of what she was feeling. “Countless villagers and castle staff,  _ dead.  _ Because of  _ you. _ ” She pointed at the cooling corpses on the floor with her staff, the blood now painting a grisly mosaic. “One of the strongest garrisons in the kingdom brought to its knees because of your  _ foolishness _ . What would the Arl think of this? If he were to ever wake?”

 

Her own words were stirring the anger at her core, stoking the flames until the simmering fury built into a rage. “You’re  _ nobility _ ; here in Ferelden that means that the Freeholders put their trust in you,  _ not _ like in Orlais.  _ You cannot _ afford to toy with Magic! You cannot risk-”

 

Her tirade was stopped by a firm gauntleted hand clapping down on her shoulder. Celestine had to fight the impulse to recoil within herself.  _ The Templars were here _ . _ They would punish her if she lost control again. _

 

Suddenly she found herself wrapped in Alistair’s arms, shivering, unable to press her hands to her eyes because they  _ burned  _ them. She was recalling the venomous remarks whispered at her in crowded corridors, the source disappearing among the bodies.  _ Behave, Amell. Or you’ll be made Tranquil. Oh, Amell, you’re not a Formari yet? Know the stockroom layout yet? You’ll be working there after all, Amell. _

 

She thought she had buried those words with her youth. Forgotten, as she grew old enough to realise that they had no power over her. Convinced herself that the Templars were not something to be feared. Trusted herself to control her magic.

 

The heat faded from her hands and she found herself looking into Alistair’s eyes - their golden tint warm with worry - the determination from earlier still there, just transformed to something softer. She could also see the question in them, the asking for an answer to her reaction, the desire - no, need - to help.

 

The realisation at how fortunate she was to have been recruited by this man struck her in full force, causing more tears to escape. She pulled in a deep shuddering breath. As she released it she wiped at her eyes, trying to clear them, to compose herself so she could properly address the matter at hand.

 

She would need to talk to Alistair about this later, about her reaction, her reasons. That he was not to blame. Just as she would need to explain to everyone else, explain about her magic, how she was  _ different _ from already perceived-as-freaks mages.   
  
“Later,” she murmured, to placate his gaze, which felt like it would pierce her to the core.

 

Stepping out of his embrace - no, she refused to think of it like that - his  _ arms _ \- Maker, that was no better.  _ She stepped away from him. _ Turning to address Morrigan, “Is there any way we can save him? I’ve never heard of anyone being  _ unpossessed.” _

 

“Hmmm, interesting idea,” the witch mused. “I believe it a futile endeavour - these fools have only themselves to blame for this mess, they should suffer the consequences. But…” she continued, seeing Celestine’s glare, “the boy changed before fleeing the room. It may be that the demon has not yet taken proper residence. If were the case, then, if one could find it in the Fade and slay it there, the child should theoretically revert to his original self.”

 

Celestine nodded; it made sense, though there would still be one obstacle. “But to do that, we would need a lot of lyrium. Lyrium we do not have.”

 

“That may be,” Morrigan countered, “but we would not need lyrium if blood magic were to supply the power, and we happen to have a blood mage nearby. Blood magic and perhaps a life.”

 

Celestine’s thoughtful expression snapped into a scowl. “I’ll have no truck with that foul practice, even if we have to go to Orzammar and back to get the lyrium needed.”

 

“The Circle  _ should _ have the supplies,” Alistair offered, “and it’s far closer. You can see the tower from the docks on a clear day.”

 

“But what about my  _ son? _ ” Isolde interjected, garnering several irritated looks.

 

“We could have the Templars from the village chantry watch over him,” Alistair suggested, his tone tentative.

 

Celestine’s eyes lit up. “Yes, of course!”

 

Everyone assembled looked at her questioningly.

 

“The Templars! Templars use lyrium to enhance their abilities! And there’s more than one reason that the lyrium smugglers get away with what they do.”

 

Alistair scratched his arm awkwardly, trying to get his fingers between the splint mail plates, “I suppose there’s that; going all the way to the Circle to get lyrium does seem a bit silly in the face of this being the largest inland settlement in the country. Lothering had to get supplies  _ somehow _ .”

 

“Well it's true that Templar lyrium is generally not ideal for large-magic casting, being diluted like the potions we drink. But if we get enough together, say a whole Chantry’s cache….” Celestine’s face was a picture of excitement. Her eyes were still slightly swollen from earlier, but the scar from the Lothering tavern fight that bisected her left cheek and eyebrow was stark against her mildly flushed face.

 

“When do we start?”

 

The question was unexpected, interrupting Celestine and shocking everyone else into silence. Sten was standing, statuesque as ever, with his arms crossed and weapon cleaned and sheathed, looking at the Warden mage.

 

“...now?” She hesitated. There was an undercurrent of urgency to the Qunari’s tone. “We still have a whole day to prepare. It should be enough time to carry up the quantity we need.”

 

The white-haired giant nodded and walked out of the room, seemingly intent on beginning the task of bringing up the magical substance. Celestine’s eyes shot from him to the others in the room until they settled on Alistair.

 

~

 

They had moved all of the lyrium that Morrigan deemed necessary to the castle by the afternoon. Erik and Alistair had led a team of men through the building, collecting corpses to be burned with the others from the village. Templars from the Chantry had been brought in to keep Connor restrained, neither of the two that had been recruited for the task looking very happy with their assignment, or the proceedings. Leliana had explored the remaining keep while Celestine and Morrigan discussed how to proceed with the spell they had planned. The bard returned, reporting that there were still a few rooms with shuffling corpses inside but far fewer in number than anything they had encountered in the working areas of the keep. Those Sten cleared out and dragged to the pile where the cart bearing the bodies to the village collected them.

 

Elisa spent most of the day sitting in the shade of the large tree in the castle courtyard, complaining loudly at not being allowed to do anything. Fortunately the two Mabari made sure to keep her entertained most of the time. Sometime around midday she was also joined by Bevin and his sister, which quieted any complaints she might have voiced after that.

 

As evening drew near they prepared for the ritual. Morrigan would cast the spell that would send Celestine into the Fade, while the others would guard over Connor’s and her physical forms.

 

Celestine looked at the large vessel of glowing blue. It had taken ten times the quantity of diluted lyrium to gather enough power to perform the ritual. It was an oddly mesmerising sight, looking into the vat of liquid mineral. She glanced at Morrigan for confirmation; the witch nodded and Celestine reached out to touch the magical substance before her.

 

~

 

She opened her eyes and looked around. She was still in Redcliffe Castle, but it was different. The colours were somehow...less. Desaturated and lifeless.

 

“Greetings, my Lady,” a voice called from behind her, “welcome to Redcliffe.”

 

She turned around, slowly. Hands automatically reached for her staff’s sling at her back, only to find that she was already holding it. Or - she was holding  _ one _ , but it barely resembled  _ hers _ . This one’s shaft was of the deepest black metal she had ever laid eyes on, instead of wood.  _ Blackened steel? Obsidian? Eternium? _ At its tip rested a clear crystal that had shots of jet-like blackness veining it.

 

The changed staff prompted her to look down at herself. Her robes had changed as well. She could not recall whether these differences had also been apparent when she had been in the Fade during her Harrowing. The robes that had been worn-through, torn and essentially reduced to tatters by her journeys were gone. Instead she was dressed in what could only be described as a uniform. The main colour was cobalt cotton that screamed military; the only place where the colour was interrupted was the chest, which had a solid white panel with leather clasps holding it closed. Her upper arms and shoulders were lined with rows of tight-fitting steel studs that made the outfit almost look like armour. The soft leather gloves that reached up to her elbows and knee-high boots accompanying the black woolen hose though, had her thinking it was more for show than anything else - a dress uniform.

 

Needless to say, she thought it countless miles more practical than any robe she had ever worn, since even decorative steel would block more than gaudy golden lining would.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Warden Amell?” the same voice from earlier asked.

 

Embarrassed, she looked up to see who was actually addressing her. He was tall, and had a beard. Those were the first things she noted - his most telling features. His grey was hair collar-length, perhaps slightly longer, and tied back as if to balance out his prominent full-facial beard. It was fascinating - more like a small animal attached to the man’s chin than the flowing symbol of wisdom that the First Enchanter had. Judging by how lavishly-if garishly- he was dressed, he had to be a nobleman, a soldier’s posture indicating that he had not always lived a life of luxury.

 

“My Lord,” she replied, half-bowing and trying to recall how Duncan had first addressed those of noble birth at Ostagar. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”

 

“Ah, did Teagan not introduce us? My apologies, I thought that was where I learned of you, I am Arl Eamon.”

 

So this was the man they had set out to ask for aid? The man that had raised Alistair and consequently turned him over to the Templars. The man who was said to be abed with a deathly sickness wracking him. The man Loghain had had Jowan poison. The man whose son had turned to demons to try and save his father.

 

“A pleasure to meet you. To answer your question, my lord: do you know where I might find your son, Connor?”


	37. Utor Exitus

Celestine woke up with a start, sitting up straight from the wonderfully soft feather mattress that she had been provided with. She gulped several calming breaths of air before she could compose herself.

 

She was suddenly very grateful that each of them had been given a separate chamber to accommodate them for the night. It was still dark outside, the lights from the village blurry through the small window in her room. Hours had passed from when she had stepped into the Fade to try and rescue Connor.

 

She had expected it to be similar to her Harrowing, where her perception of time spent in the Fade was so twisted that she forgot how long she had been there, what her purpose had been. It had been a clear indicator of how powerful a foe she’d been set against then.

 

This time was different though. Perhaps because it had not been  _ her _ mind that she had entered, but someone else’s. Regardless, she had never forgotten her purpose, but that did not mean it had been easy.

 

Her Harrowing had set her against Pride. She knew of her failings there. Was fully aware of them and while perhaps not entirely capable of eliminating the traces of it from her, she could confront and admit her failings there quite comfortably.

 

This time had been different. Her foe had been Desire. An aspect barely weaker than Pride, but in some ways, just as dangerous. She had encountered the creature several times while trying to find Connor within his own mind.

 

It had started subtly, with its offers. Suggestions she had almost fallen prey to, due to their perceived innocence, but as she fought through those, the creature had become more and more desperate. Targeting her more base wants.

 

The last encounter had been what brought her out of her sleep:  _ Hot breath against her neck, firm muscle beneath her touch. Calloused hands exploring her like nothing she had ever imagined- _

 

Celestine broke off the chain of thought. That was how the demon had almost gotten her; she had almost missed its offer entirely, to give her  _ that  _ whenever she desired it, in exchange for the boy. But it had also been that offer which snapped her back to reality, for things were not so simple. Even in that moment, there was more to life than simple pleasure fulfilment. There was always a catch in a deal with a demon and that it was never worth it.

 

She had, of course, on occasion, entertained such thoughts. But it had been only recently where she had done so with any seriousness, after leaving the Circle - where whispers of rape painted the idea in a foul light. Where the other apprentices and mages shot each other salacious looks, but looked on her with fear and suspicion.

 

Matters of the heart had briefly entertained her, when Jowan told her of his supposed Chantry Sister, when she picked up on the whispered rumours about herself and Ser Cullen. But on both accounts it had merely been a moment. A blink, before rational thought brushed away such notions. Jowan’s story seemed to hold too little weight, or was too fanciful, until, to her surprise, it had been proven otherwise, and Cullen...while he had been kind for a Templar, he was still one of  _ them _ . Those who had steeped her childhood with fear by simply existing.

 

That had all changed when Alistair had stepped into her life, a proverbial knight in - if perhaps not shining - armour. He may have originally been a part of the Order, but the way he spoke of it disassociated him from strict spartan Templars so strongly, that she could not help but overlook it.

 

He had proved to possess a frivolous wit that brought colour to her formerly drab life, and while not the most intellectual of men, he possessed a kindness that warmed her heart whenever she was witness to it. There was also a sincerity, an honesty, to all he said and did. A man with nothing to hide.

 

No, that was not entirely true. There were times she caught him looking at the simplest of things with longing. As if there was a burden he bore, beyond the weight of what the Grey Warden’s demanded. What could rival the weight of that?

 

Yet still his intentions were worn on his sleeve, and even if there were things he had not revealed, she doubted it was because he wished anyone harm.

 

It was these things that had her at odds with herself more than anything. Alistair was a warrior, trained to defend the world against an ever-encroaching darkness and had the physique to show for it. His features also added to the effect, with strong angles defining most of his face, yet not obviously so. That he had this, in addition to character appeal, made it very difficult to overlook how she felt. Or how to keep what the demon had shown her from visiting her dreams.

 

She got up from the bed and stumbled through the darkness where she knew the washbasin was. Wetting her hands, she ran them over her face and the back of her neck cooling her overheated skin, bringing reality more fully to the forefront. Then, dream as forgotten as she could force it to be, she returned to sleep, the question of who had carried her up to her rooms tugging at her mind.

 

~

 

They had breakfast in a guest-bedroom repurposed to that end. With all the other rooms in which one would normally have eaten in having had walking corpses in them for the past few weeks and the main hall still sporting impressive blood stains and bad memories, it was by far the best idea. Celestine secretly lauded whomever had thought of it.

 

People had moved up from the village, to slot in as replacement servants until something more formal could be arranged. The mage thought that, while it was perhaps not something they were used to, to wait on people, they probably felt safer with stone walls around them and those that drove back the undead near. Provided they forgot the convenient fact that it all  _ started  _ here.

 

The meal provided was a hearty one, if simple. None of the villagers could claim to have served as chef in a noble household before. Once everyone had had their fill, the companions convened together with Bann Teagan and the local Knight-Commander, Ser Harrith. Isolde  had excused herself, stating that she wished to remain at her husband’s and son’s side. Her absence was something Celestine was grateful for after the previous two day’s events.

 

The Bann was sporting a significant concussion, and spent most of the meeting reclining on the room’s bed, while the others planned what to do next.

 

“We should head to the Circle first, take the boy with us as well.” Erik suggested as he cleaned a piece of his armour with a stained rag.

 

“Judging by how the noblewoman has acted so far, ‘tis doubtful that she would permit it.” Morrigan dismissed.

 

“She is a fool. The Bas-Saarebas has already proven to be weak. Yet your leader still saved it from itself, fulfilling this woman’s wish. Disregarding anything more from this failed tamassran would be wise.”

 

Everyone looked at Sten in surprise. It had been more words from him than anyone had heard since they had initially picked him up from Lothering.

 

Elisa’s face split into a wide grin, “I  _ like _ opinionated Sten! He’s  _ growly _ .” She said the last part by folding her hands to her cheek and fluttering her eyes coyishly at the ceiling. Erik just pressed his hand to his eyes and sighed.

 

Celestine was nodding though. “I agree with Sten, It would be the best thing to do.” She looked at the Knight-Commander for affirmation as she continued. “We barely have a dozen Templars here to help prevent anything should we have a recurrence and with Redcliffe’s guard depleted as it is….”

 

The aged man looked at her slightly surprised. “I would not expect a mage to advocate the Circle so, but you are right. Without proper training, the boy can only be a danger to all around him.”

 

“Considering it seems like Jowan failed spectacularly on that front,” Celestine mumbled into her hand, staring into space.

 

“If we could travel by boat it would be considerably easier.” Leliana pointed out. “Someone Connor’s age might have a lot of energy, but he would still tire out before any of us do. Travel by land may cause more problems than we can foresee. He is noble-born, and used to being treated as such.”

 

“Yes! Faster too!” Elisa exclaimed, eagerness apparent.

 

“Well,” Celestine mused, “Kinloch Hold is located off-shore regardless and the Imperial bridge has long since fallen to pieces. Leliana’s idea has more than a few merits.”

 

The archer smiled softly at the compliment, looking down at where her folded hands rested in her lap.

 

“What of the maleficar in the dungeons?” Harrith asked, plans regarding Connor set.

 

Celestine sighed heavily, a bitter smile on her face. “I was hoping he was a problem that would just go away.”

 

“That may be the case, but it will not actually cause that wish to come true.” the Knight-Commander stated firmly, his greying brows bunching.

 

Celestine looked to his pale eyes then at the floor. “Jowan and I...have a history. He will not willingly travel in my company.”

 

“I see,” the stern man responded, though she doubted he really did. “I will ensure that he be taken into custody. One of my men will watch over him at all times while I send for reinforcements from Denerim.”

 

Celestine nodded. Numerous fates jumped to mind, as to what would happen to Jowan in the hands of the Templars. She envied none of them, but he had made his choice when he attacked friends and foe alike, in his escape from the Circle. She hoped that she was not too biased in her decision.

 

Bann Teagan and Ser Harrith left soon after that, any business regarding them concluded. The Wardens gathered together to see if there was anything that still needed to be addressed while the other party members returned to their quarters to prepare for the journey. Leliana was tasked with finding a vessel that would carry them across Lake Calenhad.

 

Alistair clapped both Elisa and Erik on the shoulder before falling into a chair again. “Maker, am I glad you’re all around. I can’t imagine how terribly it would all have worked out without everyone helping as they did. I merely need to stand there and look pretty, most of the time.”

 

Elisa laughed aloud. “A task you exceed at, Al.” Celestine hid her chuckle of agreement.

 

“I’ll have you know, I put a lot of effort into getting my hair this good.” The senior Warden replied, looking up at his brow and gently brushing at his upturned fringe with one hand.

 

“Grooming matters aside,” Erik interrupted, “it’s good to know that we have another goal. That the Circle also owes us its allegiance according to the treatise ties in perfectly. But we’ll need to decide whether to try and find the Dalish after that, or go to the Dwarves.”

 

Celestine wondered what it would be like, to return to her home after all this time. In reality it had only been a few weeks, perhaps months, since her departure. But she had experienced innumerable things since then. She was almost an entirely different person. But she dismissed those thoughts and addressed Erik’s concerns.

 

“We know where the dwarves are and we can trust them to honour the treatise, their system would not allow for anything other.” She paused before continuing, “The elves though, they are inherently untrusting of humans. We might have a difficult time getting them to commit. It would probably be best if we head to Orzammar first, since that should be nothing more than a visit. That would then give us time to address the Dalish. Hopefully we’ll find something to help the Arl along the way. He is no longer dying, but the demon placed him into some form of stasis that neither heals or degrades his body. Unless we find a cure for the extensive poisoning he’s undergone, nothing will wake him.”

 

Erik nodded his agreement. “Perhaps we’ll encounter more of the knights on the road. They might know of something by now.”

 

“The ones we did encounter were looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” Alistair pointed out, “Perhaps if we ask about that too, we might find something.”

 

Elisa mock-yawned, “That sounds like work for dusty old men, digging through dusty old places.”

 

“Yes, which means we might get some answers from the First Enchanter. There’s bound to have been a mage of the upper echelons looking into that at some point. Particularly if a noble was involved in sponsoring,” Celestine added, ignoring the implied disinterest in the Cousland’s tone.

 

The Wardens concluded by suggesting various routes to travel by once they left the Circle, but decided to settle the matter closer to the time and left to gather their own things and meet their other companions in the harbour.

 

Leliana had done an admirable job of requisitioning transport, finding the owner of a larger vessel to take them all. The man was simply grateful for their aid in driving out the dead, as well as an opportunity to leave the town. That he had been promised compensation upon the end of their trip did assist in making his gratefulness even more profound.

  
A strong breeze snapped at the sails of the vessel as it departed, pulling it swiftly from the safety of the harbour.


	38. Inliberalis Excipio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small interim

“It’s been _two whole_ _days!_ Three, if nothing happens today.”

 

Sorana looked up at Carver from where she was sitting on the steps outside the Gallows. She did not say anything. She had not said anything since she had last spoken to the Captain with the blood of her countrymen still slick on her hands.  _ What a welcome. _ She thought to herself, chuckling humorlessly.  _ Not even a day here and we greet the place with blood on the stones. It’s almost worthy of a blood-magic ritual. _

 

Carver shot a withering glare at his sister, not picking up on her abstract line of thought. “Right.  _ Of course _ you could find a way to mock me using those words.”

 

The oldest Hawke just shot him a pointed look, not saying anything while she slowly shook her head. He always managed to surprise her with his ability to take offence at her actions. But she could not afford to make some witty come-back, some snark-laden comment that would just show him how unnecessarily prideful he was being...how it exposed that same pride to barbs.

 

She had been in a form of meditation of sorts, ever since they had settled in to wait in the Gallows. The Kirkwall Circle of Magi. If only the Templars here knew whom they were host to. That they had an apostate squatting, right on their doorstep. But that anonymity cost her.

 

Sorana had always had a powerful connection to the Fade and hiding it had been one of her father’s first lessons. It had been easy in Ferelden, where the land itself seemed to accept her as its own. Here...here she was an outsider, the cobbles below her feet, the smooth stones of the buildings screaming at her, even while the grief at little Beth’s loss churned her pool of mana into something ragged and choppy - like a stormy sea tugged at by strong winds.

 

Her father had warned her how the Templars were able to identify mages. She did not know how he had discovered it, but somehow the Chantry’s so-called ‘shield’ were able to  _ hear _ lyrium. She had often wondered what that might be like. To hear it in others. She knew that the substance gave off something that, with a great deal of metaphorical embellishment, might be a song. She knew how the power thrummed through her veins, but to her, it had never been a song, it had always been a current. Like a dried-up creek bed when she had expended too much, or a river bursting at the banks after consuming a lyrium potion.

 

To hide from the Templars, she would need to tune her current to produce a song that melded with all others. To meld with the song of blood coursing through a body. To meld with the life of a city. To do this, she would need to hear this noise, pick up on it so that her addition would not stand out. She had to find a way to bury her so-called  _ song _ below the cobbles that so rejected her and funnel the broad river that was her magic into an underground waterway. Meanwhile, she could not afford creating any additional noise of her own, with her own heartbeat already so loud in her ears. She could not afford to have her chest vibrate with her voice - at least, not yet, not until the city accepted her.

 

Until then, she would need to remain silent around Templars and focus on being  _ songless _ .

 

Part of her laughed at the simple picture it all painted. That one of the more feared Templar abilities: a  _ Silence _ , was precisely the state of being she had to achieve to avoid being on the receiving end of the power. As if a Templar casting the ability on a mage were simply telling his target’s lyrium to  _ shut up. _

 

Aveline interrupted her thoughts by agreeing with Carver’s original statement: “Carver’s right. We can’t stay out here forever. Is this family of yours even coming?”

 

“Gamlen will come!” Leandra stated emphatically. “I’m sure there’s a reason he’s so late. Perhaps the Captain couldn’t find him.”

 

Aveline rubbed her brow, “I’m not so sure. Everything we’ve heard so far indicates that the Amells no longer reside in Kirkwall. Or at least those that  you were related to.”

 

Sorana had to agree with the former officer. Despite her mother’s claims of certainty, she was beginning to doubt this noble heritage of hers, as much as it hurt her to think of her mother in that light - admittedly, she could not be sure how little Beth’s death may have affected her. It had seemed an extremely unlikely set of circumstances, considering where they came from: Ferelden farmer-apostates. Yet another part of her argued against those ideas. Their mother had always been a strong woman. She had to have been, to survive as an apostate’s wife; she would not break from this.

 

A bell tolled from the towering, no,  _ looming _ structure of the Gallows proper. Sorana had to admit, she was impressed.

 

Kinloch Hold, the Ferelden Circle, was an actual  _ tower _ that stretched hundreds of yards into the sky like a spire trying to pierce the heavens. She had marvelled at it often while escorting caravans past Lake Calenhad. Compared to that, the Gallows were a short, squatting structure, yet it  _ loomed _ far more effectively - as if the air around it were a miasma of gloom and hopelessness. The Ferelden apostate was mentally labeling it as ‘The Kirkwall Effect’.

 

The bell was clearly some means of imparting the time of day, as the portcullis form one of the various entrances opened and a troop of Tranquil pulling carts came out, moving to pre-allocated market stalls where they began unpacking their wares.

 

Sorana had watched them the previous two days and thought she could feel the city lift its eyes to the Circle: scholars, nobles, surgeons, herbalists, merchants and artisans would now come to the Gallows to purchase enchanted wares from the Formari and sell their own to fill the Circle’s day-to-day requirements.

 

The Tranquil selling enchanted jewellery finished setting up his stall a few yards away. The lyrium in his wares would hopefully drown out hers if her practiced suppression failed.

 

“If he doesn’t show up by tomorrow evening, we’ll head to either Ostwick, or Starkhaven.”

 

~o~

 

Samantha sat bolt-upright.

 

The robes she was still wearing from when she had first been brought into the Seeker’s chamber were soaked in sweat and she had the strangest feeling of something fading from her chest - receding back to the void. In mere moments it was gone. Curious.

 

She turned, swinging her legs until they hung over the edge of the bed onto the floor. She slipped her feet into her shoes and stood up, lifting her robes at the collar a bit so the sweat caught under the heavy fabric could dry and help prevent her from catching a chill later.

 

She had not been standing for more than a few minutes when the door burst open, light flooding in and temporarily blinding the former mage. She blinked against the brightness to try and make out the silhouettes before her. There looked to be two, one having stopped just inside the doorway while the other quickly moved further into the room, not having stopped since their energetic entry.

 

As Samantha’s eyes adjusted she recognised who the room’s new occupants were: the female Seeker that had been questioning the First Enchanter and Martin. Both were breathing somewhat heavily. The woman had rushed right past the Tranquil and begun rifling through the books in the shelves, muttering to herself.

 

“Lady Cassandra, do you truly believe this to be a feint?” Martin asked, leaning slightly to look out of the door back into the passageway. “Should we not first wait for word from Darren and Neal? They might discover something that aligns with the Jacque's claims….”

 

“No. This was all a distraction. He means to draw attention away from Montsimmard while he makes his move. He’s feeling threatened by Senior Enchanter Vivienne’s speedy climb through court.”

 

The Seeker identified as Cassandra had pulled several tomes from the shelf and was paging through each; and once having found what she was looking for, opening the next and paging through that. This continued until all the books were lying open on top of each other in front of her. She huffed and propped her fists on her hips while shaking her head.

 

“There’s nothing here that could possibly incriminate Madame de Fer. Only the usual trainer’s feedback which just highlights how much she’s progressed. Maker have mercy on that pig, for I will not.”

 

“That may be so,” Martin agreed, “but I still feel there is something not quite right going on here. Both the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander are hiding something.”

 

Cassandra wheeled on the man, her tied-back hair whipping around and making the movement seem far more dramatic than it truly was. “That may be so Seeker Martin, yet that is not our assigned case.” The armoured woman marched up to Martin and poked his leather cuirass with a patronizing finger. “There may be something here that needs looking into, but we Seekers have not yet been called to look into it and we can not afford to do so unless our primary objective has been dealt with.” She stepped back from him and crossed her arms, continuing in a softer voice: “The Lord Seeker’s directive needs to be carried out and the Divine has seconded this by appointing me to it. We cannot afford unrest so close to the Chantry’s heart; if you care to recall what happened the last time….”   
  
“Yes, Seeker Cassandra,” Martin replied, cowed.

 

“Personally I‘m not particularly fond of this case. It is too closely tied to the Game, but we do what we must in service to the Maker.”

 

“Not too fond of our Orlesian patrons, Cassandra?” Martin teased as he moved to close the door to the chamber.

 

Cassandra took bedding from the dresser and dropped it onto her claimed cot. Sinking onto the mattress she took her head in her hands, making a noise that seemed to convey years of exasperation, impatience and attempted tolerance all in one go.

 

“If I hear one more noble trying to tell me how I did something, it will be the end of them.”

 

Martin chuckled to himself as he also readied his bed.

 

Only then did Cassandra seem to take an interest in the Tranquil in their quarters, waving a dismissive hand in the wine-haired girl’s direction. “So, Martin, this is the Tranquil you retrieved when we searched the First Enchanter’s chambers?”

 

“Yes, uhm...she’s his research assistant as well as this Circle’s lyrium authority.”

 

“What’s your name, girl?” Cassandra ordered.

 

“Samantha Augustine Trevelyan, Lady Seeker.”

 

“Hmph, used to be a noble. Explains the healthier...well everything. Tell me Trevelyan, what was the First Enchanter having you do for him?”

 

“I was assigned to the First Enchanter as administrative aide, to assist with any day-to-day dealings of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. These duties encompass, but are not limited to: record-keeping of the Circle’s day-to-day dealings, periodical information gathering and reporting, tracking of the Circle’s finances, inventory supplies and perishable stock levels. The First Enchanter also used me to assist in any personal research, investigations and additional Circle-operation monitoring.”

 

Cassandra looked thoughtful for a moment before she nodded to her fellow, “We’ll take her along, perhaps she may shed some light on what’s been happening in this Circle. Will that assuage your concerns, Martin?”

 

“That will hopefully be enough, Lady Cassandra.”

  
“Good, catch some sleep, we leave tomorrow.”


	39. Inliberalis Excipio Secundus

“Finally…”

Elisa’s grateful sigh was accompanied by a great deal of exuberant barking as Alfonse and Triss bounded along the length of the vessel and leapt onto the pier. They then turned around and looked expectantly back at the boat, tails wagging excitedly, as if it were completely out of character for their humanoid companions not to follow after them, expecting them to do so at a moment’s notice.

 

The sound of wood-on-wood soon followed after the mabari, as the gang-plank was lowered to allow the rest of the crew an easier descent.

 

Elisa was first off after the man who secured the bottom of the walkway, slowly crouching down until she could comfortably drop to her knees, where she promptly prostrated herself on the almost petrified planks of the pier. Erik disembarked shortly after her, unable to hide a smile at his sister’s antics. “Now, now Sister. We were aboard for barely half a day. Surely your stomach could handle the calmness of a  _ lake _ ?”

 

“Nay, I have been felled,” came her muffled response as Celestine also stepped ashore. “A most foul circumstance of unsteady grounds has rendered me low.”

 

“I’m not sure if that would make any sense, even to Morrigan,” Celestine teased as she crouched down where Elisa lay, treating Triss to some rougher petting. The hound seemed to revel in her affections, if its lolling tongue, wagging tail and attempts to lick Celestine’s face were any indicators.

 

One of the better things that had happened at Redcliffe, had been Celestine’s visit to the blacksmith. To say that the man was grateful for the rescue of his daughter, would have been an understatement. As a sign of his gratitude, Owen had offered to find something to replace Celestine’s tattered robes. Using a lighter leather armour as a base, he had pieced together a surprisingly functional suit of armour that would not limit mobility. He had also roughly tailored the mage’s old robes to create an almost tabard-like shawl, making the most of the Formari-enchanted fabric. 

 

“Lies and slander of the foulest kind!” Elisa moaned from her position, weakly waving an arm. “I have been betrayed by my most trusted of friends. This plane of existence will not contain my sorrow. Farewell mortal body, I embrace the bliss of steady grounding.”

 

Morrigan, it seemed, had elected to ignore the noble on the dock, instead dropping onto the wooden platform and walking to the end of the pier. She gazed over the lake as if expecting to find something amidst the small wavelets breaking up its surface. Alistair stood next to Erik, craning his head to look up at the tower whose shadow they found themselves in. Leliana was still aboard, discussing the merchant’s payment.

 

“Warden, armed men approach.” Sten’s voice cut the joviality short. Nearly everyone had drawn their weapons before he continued, “They look to be of the Templars. They bear similar arms to those who imprisoned me.” He sounded almost bored, the passionlessness of his tone as matter-of-fact as the ground Elisa had been praising mere moments before. Everyone relaxed slightly.

 

The trio of Templars who had appeared from the direction of the tower stopped where the pier met land. Celestine realised it was most likely to allow them to better control should a fight break out. It had surprised her to see how effective the tactic actually was in reality, compared to what she had pictured from the books. Fortunately, she had Erik and Alistair to point out if any such opportunities arose for themselves.

  
“Lower your arms and leave, travelers. The Circle is closed to all outsiders. Templar business,” the man in the lead ordered, voice slightly muffled by his helmet. The one behind and to his left tapped him on a pauldron and murmured something which had him tensing up and drawing his sword. “There is an apostate among you. Hand them over lest you imperil yourselves.”

 

Morrigan and Celestine’s eyes met for a moment before the prior nodded discreetly and stepped just  _ that  _ bit more behind Sten. The latter stepped out from among the group, hands held out to the sides of her body and pointing at the floor.

 

“Calm yourselves, good sers. I may be a mage, but not an apostate. I am Celestine Amell, of the Grey Wardens, formerly of this very Circle.”

 

“So you may claim, but what apostate does not subscribe to deceit?”

 

Celestine sighed; she had never encountered the suspicion of a Templar outside of the Circle before. Her logical mind understood the reasoning. Mages were people, with the same failings as all others. But with the power they wielded, the consequences of a “person’s” actions when threatened were what the Templars had grown to represent…. There was merit to how Templars reacted to mages outside the Circles, but that behaviour in turn also gave mages an excuse to act as  _ they  _ did. The blame lay at the feet of history, and of those who chose to accept the same preconceptions as their predecessors,  generation after generation.

 

“The First Enchanter and perhaps any mage of this Circle can vouch for the truth in my statement. I may have no claim to popularity here, but I was known.”

 

“Such an endeavour would be a practice in futility. We cannot permit you access to any mage of the Tower.”

 

The stubbornness of the Templars was beginning to wear on Celestine. While she had never attempted to actually  _ leave _ the Circle during her stay there, she had never expected it to be more problematic to return.

 

“We are Grey Wardens,” she enunciated slowly, “we have treatises binding all mages of the Circles to assist us in the defeating the Blight. The Wardens are an Order tied to the Chantry as well, if not controlled by it. You have no right to block our passage.”

 

“Our orders are to prevent anyone from entering the Circle. Without proof, your claim to Warden status is as solid as mine is as the Empress of Orlais.”

 

Alistair raised an eyebrow at that, and looked at the trio blocking their way as if assessing them. “Hmm, not that I’m an expert, but I’m not entirely sure you have the hips to pull off a dress.”

 

Celestine hid her snicker just as much as Elisa did not.   
  
“Warden,” Sten’s voice grumbled from behind, “we are wasting time here. Let us cut them down so we may recruit the bas-saarebas unhindered.”

 

“Stand down Qunari; your pagan barbarism will not be tolerated here,” the Templar spokesperson warned. Sten merely grunted.

 

Celestine was sure that if she did not contain her irritation, the Templars would soon be dancing on flames, but then an idea occurred to her. “Ser Templar, while you may dispute my authenticity as a Warden, there are those in authority who do not. If you will not step aside, I will be forced to administer the Right of Conscription, to order you aside. You may take that action up with Greagoir himself, to inform him of your leaving the Templar Order.”

 

This time the Templars did not immediately dispute what she said. Celestine derived an odd sense of satisfaction when the leader turned around to discuss something with the two others. Finally they broke apart again, to address the group gathered on the pier. “Very well, you will be escorted to Knight-Commander Greagoir. He will ascertain what claim to business you have here.

 

Celestine nodded graciously, almost managing to suppress her smirk.

 

Leliana had by that point joined them, having completed the payment for their passage to the island. “I see our dear friend is becoming quite the diplomat,” she teased as they made their way off the pier onto the cobbled road leading to the Circle.

 

“Yes!” Elisa crowed. “Please word-whip more Templars, Tina.” Sidling up to the mage she continued more salaciously, “It’s hella sexy.”

 

The rogue simply laughed at Celestine’s blush, clapping her on the shoulder before jogging on ahead to where a tree that stood beside a small ruined wall several hundred meters from the tower of Kinloch Hold itself. Triss and Alfonse barked happily and bounded after her.

 

Celestine found herself looking at Alistair, who had in turn been caught looking at  _ her _ . Her embarrassed smile turned into a proper one when he looked away, rubbing at his neck the way he was wont to when uncomfortable. Something about his glances told her that he saw more than the abomination waiting to happen. More than a figurehead, whose identity is restricted to being a member of a mysterious organization.

 

Morrigan broke that train of thought swiftly, though.

 

“There is something amiss here,” she stated, raven-like eyes scanning the Tower. “I had expected the Veil to be thin, but there is a malice here.”

 

Celestine’s attention turned to the apostate; the witch’s tone was distant, clearly absorbed by whatever it was she was analysing. This was not Morrigan being deceitful, no, this was Morrigan concerned. If something concerned Morrigan, one whose mother claimed to be  _ the _ Flemeth, well. It was something worthy of concern, if not all out panic.

 

The Warden mage looked at the tower itself. The weather was overcast, with the sky rapidly darkening, but the spire of white stone still stood clear, reaching to the clouds as if trying to pierce the heavens. She did not notice what Morrigan was talking about until she began tapping into the Fade. Doing so normally affected her senses, which would become hypersensitive, or...perhaps a better expression would be “parasensitive” for the duration that the lyrium inside her channeled her mana. Her vision would sharpen, and she would see things that may not be in the corporeal world. Hearing would gain an edge, as if a thick blanket wrapped around her head had been removed, letting her acknowledge the whispers of the Fade. Touch would intensify, until she could isolate each grain in the roughness of her staff’s haft and the weave of her robes. Scents would magnify to a point that she would have to consciously separate one from another. Taste...well, there was a reason mages enjoyed good meals beyond meeting the demands that casting placed on their bodies.

 

She gasped when she saw it. The base of the building looked as it always had, with phantasmal shapes flickering in and out of existence, an invisible world, hidden behind the Veil. The whispers that hovered at the edge of hearing clamoured there, as they always had, There was also the noticeable muting any scents - an indication of how thin the Veil was. That she only became aware of how different this was to the rest of the outside world was an indicator of how perception ruled over all senses. But it was a sight familiar to Celestine, who had spent the better part of her life at the Circle; what shocked her were the higher floors of the building. It looked as if large dark clouds of entropic energy were gathered about it, suffocating it.

 

“Maker….”

 

“What? What is it?” Alistair asked, glancing up at the Tower himself.

 

“I...don’t know. But something is very wrong here.”

 

Celestine turned to her companions. “We cannot afford to send every Warden into a place from whence they may not emerge. Alistair will need to come, but I would prefer it if Elisa and Erik stayed outside this time as well. Sten and Morrigan will need to remain outside; we don’t know how the Templars may react to either of you, and I’d prefer not to have another confrontation with them. Also, if I don’t make it, at least there’ll still be a mage with the party.”

 

“I take it then, that I’ll be coming with you?” Leliana asked.

 

“Yes, the arcane is best fought at a distance and as a former lay sister, you may know how to approach the Templars better in some capacities than I would.”

 

“Oh, yes. I know how to  _ approach _ Templars.”

 

Erik cleared his throat, prompting Celestine to turn to him in query. “My sister will not be happy about this. She may take some convincing.”

 

Amell nodded. “It’s what I would expect of her, yet I know she’s not unreasonable.” She smiled, nodding over her shoulder, “but I shouldn’t keep our friendly host waiting. Maker willing, we’ll be back in a day or two. Any longer and you can check to see if anything can be salvaged. Otherwise head to Orzammar as planned.”

 

Erik nodded solemnly, and went to follow his sister’s path. Sten had already settled himself beneath the tree by the wall and Morrigan wandered off to the water’s edge.

 

Bracing herself, Celestine turned around to follow the Templar impatiently shifting his weight. She dreaded what kind of homecoming it would turn out to be, as the voices from beyond the Veil altered ever more in tone as she neared the Tower.


	40. Domus Reditio

_ No...this can’t be. I must be in the Fade. Yes, this must be some demon, trying to catch me unawares. _

 

Celestine did not hear any of the words of Greagoir’s explanation after he had revealed that the Tower had fallen. Fallen to demons and abominations. The evidence to support his claim was all around them. A mere handful of Templars were in the room, the entrance-hall to the tower. One corner seemed to have been designated as a space for the wounded. There were several armoured and robed figures lying there, alternating between groaning, whimpering and sleeping fitfully. One injured man had woken up screaming as the group passed by, the sound chilling the returning mage to the core. Some even looked to have stopped breathing entirely, with the designated surgeon - who may have simply been a Templar that had docked his armour - occasionally indicating that a body be removed. Her attention snapped back to present reality as soon as she heard the words ‘Rite of Annulment.’

 

“What? No!”

 

Greagoir’s eyes grew wide before his face set into a scowl. “Listen here  _ Amell: _ I’ve been a Templar for longer than you’ve been alive. I know when a situation is irredeemable. I’ve lost three quarters of my men to whatever has taken over the Tower and I  _ refuse _ to risk any more in some vainglorious idea that there may be something we can do against that many abominations.”

 

He leaned back folding his arms, both face and tone softening, “Fighting even  _ one _ abomination is a challenge, but a whole Circle’s worth? I won’t throw away lives like that. I’m truly sorry, but once we receive reinforcements and the Rite from Denerim, the Annulment will take place.”

 

Celestine wrung her hands, the gauntlet-like half-gloves unfamiliar and damp with sweat. She paced once before turning to address the Knight-Commander again. “What if we clear the Tower? What if we get rid of all the abominations?”

 

The older man scoffed visibly. “Impossible. I won’t stop you, but what chance do you few have where a hundred of my men failed?”

 

“So, you will withold the Rite, if we’re successful?”

 

This elicited a thoughtful look from Greagoir, who paused for a  moment before answering. “...Bring me the First Enchanter. Bring me Irving. I will take his word as assurance that the Tower has been cleansed.”

 

Celestine nodded, before motioning for her companions to follow. She could not place the feeling in her breast - whether it was fear, anticipation, hope, anxiety or hopelessness - but she sure as the Void wished it would go away as she watched her hand shake just a little bit before gripping her staff while two Templars removed the bar and opened the door for them.

 

As the entrance-hall doors swung open she absently wondered whether anyone in her group would be able to teach her how to someday use her staff as Hawke did hers. She was pulled out of the stray thought when she found herself gently gripped by the elbow and turned to find Greagoir’s eyes, steely.  _ Don’t lose yourself. _ The words echoed through her mind, resounding along with her life until they reached that memory, the memory bathed in flame.

 

~

 

He had to fight the feeling of all of it being the strangest dream sequence. They had been there mere months before...for it to have changed that drastically in such short a time…. His heart went out to Celestine.

 

He knew that Redcliffe should have affected him more than it actually had. He was wondering if that made him a bad person, for not feeling like the events there actually ever moved him. But the Tower was different. He did not look at anything as himself. He looked at it through the lens of “this was hers.”

 

The Knight-Commander had given them an unprecedented opportunity. Templars were not known to give way on matters that regarded the Fade-corrupted. It made him wonder if there was perhaps more to the relationship between Celestine and Greagoir, or whether it was simply respect for the Grey Wardens as a whole.

 

When they first went through the doorway defended by the Templars, they were greeted by an empty corridor, no evidence of whatever it was that the Templars on the other side feared. But that soon changed.

 

Celestine led the way, years of living in the Circle clearly represented in how familiarly she worked through rooms. That was where they found the first traces of the hardships the Tower was undergoing. The apprentice dormitories were the first rooms that branched out from the circular corridor leading from the entrance hall. It looked like a storm had blown through the rooms, and considering the Circle’s inhabitants, that may well have been what happened.

 

The neat rows of bunks had been knocked awry, several of the beds toppled over completely. The same went for the closets. Bed clothes and personal items seemed to have been strewn across the room at random, but the most unnerving thing was that despite all the chaos, the rooms were all entirely devoid of anything but the inanimate.

 

There was a haunted look about Celestine’s eyes and he could not help but want to drive it away. His sword arm was restless and his shield was begging to smash into something. It was the strangest thing. A sensation unfamiliar to him. He had never been one for bloodshed, yet he found his body begin to yearn for it.

 

When they opened the doorway at the end of the circular corridor and he sensed the tingle of his hairs standing on end, he was almost grateful. Shades similar in appearance to Torpor  swarmed through the room before them. At their head, a great flaming manifestation of Rage bellowed fire and fury at something obscured by the masses of Fade denzines.

 

Alistair felt the energy he had kept leashed break free, heard the blood rushing through his ears as his vision sharpened. He launched himself forward with a wordless cry on his lips.

 

His sword bit into the viscous matter that demons drew together to form their corporeal bodies. The blade’s flow was hardly impaired by the substance, fueled by an energy the former Templar recruit was unfamiliar with.

 

He had lost track of Leliana; the bard had faded into the background as they worked through the rooms. His attention had been wholly focused on Celestine, and while he saw the occasional feathered shaft grow out of the most threatening of demons he still had no idea of where she was.

 

The furious battle-rage had, perhaps ironically, somehow landed him right in front of the Rage demon and the mass of lava reverberated with a bellow before swinging an appendage half his own size at him.

 

He shifted his feet as best as he was able before bringing his shield to bear.

 

There was a sharp  _ crack _ and instead of a mass of heat colliding with him, as he had expected, a great frozen claw snapped at the elbow and shattered on the floor at his feet, causing him to blink several times, surprised.

 

Celestine did not hesitate, slamming her staff into the cobbled ground as she had in Redcliffe, and grunted with satisfaction as the cobbles in the path before her erupted underneath the demon, shattering the rest of its mass.

 

But if it had not been her, who had frozen the demon? His question was answered as soon as he looked from Celestine back to where the demon had stood. There was an elderly woman - a mage - standing, staff raised at them, in front of an entire horde of children. Her expression was calm, intensely focused.

 

“You….” Her demeanour changed abruptly as her eyes reached Celestine, face hardening. “Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down.”

 

Alistair looked over to Celestine, hoping she would give an indication of what to do next. She was leaning on her staff, seemingly unconcerned by the weapon leveled against her, a hesitant smile creeping over her features. “Wynne, is that you? Maker, it’s good to find someone in here.”

 

Wynne looked away for a moment, then back at them, her expression softer, yet no less guarded. “You’re the Amell child, right? Were you not at Ostagar? With the other Wardens? How can you be here?”

 

The need to say something quickly overpowered any restraint he may have tried to hastily muster. “She is, we were, yes, and  _ magic! _ Or at least that’s the only way Morrigan’s mother would have been able to get us off that tower.” He was unsure of whether he should think of the old woman as Flemeth or not. She had not shown any inclinations that the legends had stated she was prone to be, but if Morrigan had fallen anywhere close to the tree then the woman must have been evil, considering that Morrigan was the  _ spawn  _ of evil. Or perhaps that had been her father. He wondered if the witch had anything to say on the topic. Probably something heartless.

 

Wynne levelled a gaze at him that immediately made him want to apologise. He just barely managed to bite that back.

 

“Yes, as Alistair so eloquently put it,” Celestine affirmed, chuckling slightly, something that made him oddly happy, but then her face turned somber. “Wynne, Greagoir has sent for the Rite of Annulment.”

 

The older woman’s defensive stance relaxed somewhat. “I...see.” She sighed. “He has given us up for lost then. An entire Circle culled in one fell stroke.”

 

“That need not be so,” Celestine ventured. “My companions and I have been given leave to try and rescue Irving. The Knight-Commander will listen to him on what needs to be done with the Circle.”

 

Wynne nodded, looking thoughtful. “Yes, Greagoir trusts Irving.” Looking up sharply, the older woman addressed Celestine once more. “Then that is what we shall do: find Irving and rescue any others we may encounter along the way.” She turned around, addressing the motley group assembled behind her like so many children trying to hide in a mother’s skirts. “Petra, look after the children; get some of the other older apprentices to help you. I’ll raise the barrier once more when we’re on the other side.”

 

The cautious-looking redhead Wynne had addressed nodded quickly and immediately began herding the ones assembled around her, coaxing them with soft murmurs and gentle touches.

 

The older mage turned back to the trio to be addressed by Celestine. “Senior Enchanter, do you believe yourself up for this? I would not have you throw your life away.”

 

Wynne smiled, almost indulgently, “There is some life in these old bones yet and there was reason behind the decision to send me to Ostagar along with the other six. I would like to join you, in the fight for my home.”

  
“Very well, we are grateful for any assistance.”


	41. Pueritia Momento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new, familiar face.

“Leilaniiiiii! Let go of my hair!”

 

Thornton looked up from the carved vessel of sweet cider he’d been given to see two young Dalish girls fighting in the loam a short distance away. One had chestnut brown hair, tied back into a tail, the other long pale strands blonde of hair that was currently getting pulled at by the other.

 

“No, Eilhanam not ‘til you give my ajuem’asha back!”

 

“It wasn’t me, sulevem Rasdheas!”

 

Their voices were in stark contrast to the relative quiet of the camp, but the dark-skinned ranger knew there were more children around, just that they had headed off into the surrounding forest shortly after he had arrived. He did not bother to try and hide the amused grin as one of the girls’ mother appeared, clear voice reprimanding and causing the two younglings to squee - scampering off over some barrels and behind one of the aravels. The elvish woman just huffed loudly and returned to her spindle,  joining back in the hushed conversation that seemed to be the main output of the small group that had gathered to spin material.

 

“An’daran Atish’an, Ghi'myelan.”

 

He turned to see who had addressed him. Keeper Dashenna had sat down on a small collapsible stool in front of him with a vessel not unlike his own gripped in her hand. She was dressed in the traditional Keeper’s garb, consisting of fine ironwood mail and thick green-stained leather ornamented with soft fur pauldrons. Her vallas’lin aged her otherwise youthful features slightly. He nodded curtly, “To you as well, Keeper.”

 

“What, may I ask, brings the Margrave’s Eyes to Clan Lavellan?”

 

“You’ve heard of the rumors of a Blight to the south?”

 

“Indeed, who but the most isolated has not?”

 

“The Margrave wishes to send troops to support the Wardens, but as word has reached him that there have been whispers of unrest here in the east, by the Minanter Delta. He wishes to ensure that his realm is cared for  _ before _ weakening himself.”

 

The Keeper looked thoughtful for a moment before responding, “A wise man then, on both accounts. For planning to send aid and for making sure his own herd is cared for.”

 

Thornton’s response was a slow nod of his head.

 

“I presume you are then here to ask whether we know anything of these happenings around the Delta?”

 

The ranger nodded again.

 

“We have not yet seen anything ourselves, having only recently moved into the area. But our hunters tell that the animals are skittish, in a manner that can only be explained by extensive hunting in the area. As there are no nearby villages…”

 

“You believe there may be people here, those of the type that it may stir up rumours of unrest.”

 

This time it was Dashenna’s turn to nod.

 

Thornton’s gaze turned thoughtful as he stared into the fire that was heating a pot nearby. He looked at the drink in his hand and downed it, carefully placing the vessel down onto the makeshift bench on which he was sitting, before standing up.

 

“I will head out then, to clarify what this presence may be. I shall return with news whether it be an ill one or not as soon as I am able.”

 

“Ma’serranas, Ghi'myelan, I shall await your return. Please see the Crafter for supplies before you head out.”

 

Thornton was about to voice his thanks when he heard a high-pitched shout, anticipating the worst he reached to retrieve his bow still lying against the bench, while his eyes scanned the area from which the shouting came.

 

It was a child’s that had called out, but it had an undercurrent of fear lending it an edge. He had heard that sound far too often to not have it send chills down his spine. But before he could even straighten up, weapon gripped tightly in hand, a figure came bounding through the foliage on the far side of the camp.

 

It was one of the hunters, with both of the girls from earlier wrapped in each of his arms, both of whom were sobbing and holding onto the man with what seemed to be all their strength. The elf only stopped once he reached the Keeper, in whose hands a staff had appeared as if from thin air.

 

The man gently lowered the girls to the ground before leaning down on his knees, panting heavily. The girls though, merely clung to the man’s legs now, instead of his leather cuirass. The woman who had tried to scold them earlier, got up from her place, and dropping her spindle to the ground moved to embrace the weeping youngsters, murmuring to them softly in mixed Elvhen and King’s Speak.

 

Dashenna put a tentative hand on the hunter’s shoulder, “Eolas, what happened?”

 

The man breathed in deeply and looked up at the Keeper, still leaning on his knees. Thornton noted that he no longer had his bow and a goodly few arrows were missing from his quiver.

 

“Shem’len...in a cave by the river...they were worshipping a giant haselan, filthy leanatha’len.” The man took a few more steadying breaths. and was about to continue when the girl with the white-blonde hair pushed past him, eyes still red from tears.

 

“K-keeper…” the girl began hesitantly, Dashenna looked to Eolas, who indicated that she listen to the girl first; the Dalish leader crouched down so that she was face-to-face with what had to be one her younger charges.

 

“Tell me what happened, da’len.” She soothed, gently cupping on cheek while slowly brushing the pale hair with the other.

 

“T-there were these men, l-like Ghi'myelan. Me an’ Leilani thought that m-maybe they could also be elni.” The girl shuddered, before sniffing several times and continuing, “they tried t-to grab Lani, though, s-so I screamed and hit the one who tried to do it.” The girl’s eyes grew wide then, before she continued, “when I hit him there was  _ thunder _ , Keeper! Blue light was  _ everywhere _ and then the one I hit just fell over.” She seemed to shrink in on herself then, “The others ran away after Leilani’s Bae shot at them.”

 

~

 

Thronton looked on with curiosity as a Dalish tribe accepted a mage into their midst. He had seen several poor sods carted off to the Circles by the Templars, but he had to admit that he preferred this. Despite the shock and emotions that had run wild at the danger posed to the children’s lives, the way the blond-haired one had been treated upon the discovery of her ability was more akin to a celebration of coming-of-age, than the normal clapped-in-irons-and-escorted-away he was used to.

  
But from what the hunter had said, there was a spider-worshipping cult in these woods. As the Margrave’s Ranger, he had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this ages ago and then forgot about it, thus I have forgotten what all the Elvhen means, but the context still makes sense, I hope.
> 
> For those of you unaware, most of my recent focus has been on my ME/DA crossover: [Legends: Of the Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3811525/chapters/8494033). Come join me and Shepard in our exploration of Thedas as a modern human! And don't worry, I will finish _this_ work yet...sometime.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this, the more comprehensive the better. If not, please also leave a comment detailing why. I aim to grow.**  
>  ლ,ᔑ•ﺪ͟͠•ᔐ        〆(・∀・＠)  
> 
> 
> e153n.tumblr.com
> 
> It may take a while, but this work will eventually lead into DA2 and DAI.


End file.
